


he walked the bethsaida parable

by harmony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, does not take anything from the dawn of the future novel into account
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 02:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmony/pseuds/harmony
Summary: (Takes place two years post-canon) Through astonishing miracle and magic, Ignis is allowed to regain his eyesight just five times in total, seemingly for only an hour each time: a gift that he has to use wisely, especially given his unexpectedly deepening friendship with Prompto.





	he walked the bethsaida parable

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished my first proper Promnis fic! I’ve written little ficlets before, but hey, now you guys get a longfic (sorry it’s not in chapters, but the flow feels right to me as one continuous block). This took a whole year to write, and I really poured my heart and soul into it … it’s been such a long and emotional journey!
> 
> Btw, quick clarification: this fic is in no way intended as a dismissal/rejection of Ignis’ disability. I wrote this fic simply to explore a “what if” scenario that wouldn’t leave my head, not because I refuse to accept disabled characters for the way they are. Quite the opposite – I actually find the canon blindness storyline to be an absolutely important and inspiring portrayal of Iggy’s journey to get back onto his feet and find strength again! It teaches us so many amazing lessons in living with/overcoming hardships that I support all the way. Plus I know how important this particular subject matter is to many people, so I’ve put in every effort to treat it seriously and with the utmost respect, including the ending (you’ll see what I mean when you get there).
> 
> That said, I hope you’ll be willing to give this fic a try! Enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. Special thanks to Bre, Marley, SuWan, Ace and Callie for your tremendous help with various canon fact-checks and read-throughs! This fic wouldn’t have been possible without you guys. ♥

A vivid light.

Raw, and stark. The luminosity’s already splayed over his eyelids before he can even slide the unmarred one open.

When he does, bold colors fill his frame of sight.

It’s like a _sting_ , all at once; a piercing bite. Too many scraps of data that long-eclipsed pupils haven’t absorbed in well over ten years, stamping a dim ache into the slick cords nested behind the sensitive spheres of his eyes. A blur of indistinct rainbows in a spectrum of forgotten hues, brilliant and fierce and much too bright.

And with them, textures that he _knows_. Vague shapes that he’s gauged by the tremors of everyday life beneath his feet, by feeling its contours at his fingertips, by sounds and echoes that judge size and distance. Textures that he’s now familiar with in every way but by vision.

Except that right now, for whatever reason, he’s _seeing_ them.

It doesn’t make sense.

His surroundings fade in to replace the near-white radiance, little by little: aged navy wall tiles, a large square of silver glass, a white porcelain sink. A cross-handled faucet of hard brass, smooth and cold underneath the calluses of his palm.

He raises his head through the warm, misty tendrils of after-shower steam, and spots the man in the mirror.

A green-lit eye widens, stunned. Twenty-two years old – the last time he’d seen anything – feels like an eternity ago; it hangs at the cusp of his memory, somewhat distant but not at all forgettable. The person in front of him now holds a different tone, a different color, a different shape. A different life too, maybe. He’s not yet familiar with this: the _actual sight_ of his own self at thirty-four.

‘… Iggy?’

And then Prompto strides into view.

He _fits_ alongside the static description of twenty-year-old Prompto that Ignis had carried within his mind’s eye through all the years spent in visual darkness. Blond hair a touch shorter and a little more loosely styled; slender face slightly age-worn, with deeper lines etched around his eyes and mouth; the freshly trimmed goatee at his chin – but otherwise, quite largely unchanged with regard to physical appearance. Almost like a nod to bygone days when the entire world around them had overall been brighter, merrier. Almost like a bold insinuation that things can somehow return to that state of being.

Their stares lock together through the mirror, and even when Prompto’s a short way behind him, Ignis can see the raw astonishment painted into his features.

‘What … your eye,’ Prompto says outright as he slowly inches forward, a precarious quiver staining his voice. ‘It’s not clouded anymore. The color’s back.’

Ignis pivots on his heel at that, turning until they’re face-to-face.

A sight for sore eyes. The flushed, healthy tint and shade of Prompto’s skin is somehow richer and fuller when looked upon directly like this, rather than through a reflective sheet of glass.

‘Prompto, I—’ Ignis answers in an unsteady breath, still half-numb with disbelief. ‘—I can _see you_.’

That’s all that’s needed for the dam to break.

Prompto closes the distance between them with a single swooping step; drapes long arms around Ignis and presses him in tight; holds him, and holds him more, until Ignis loses count of the innumerable minutes ticking by and all that he knows is what’s here now – the delicate fragrance of Prompto’s hair, the heat of Prompto’s face tucked beneath his jaw, the soft heave of Prompto’s chest against his own, Prompto, Prompto, just Prompto.

* * *

The truth is, he can’t even begin to understand how that’d come to pass.

Thinking back, he’d ambled out of the shower, toweled himself dry, slipped into the day’s crisp work outfit, swept the bathroom door open to air out the lingering steam: nothing out of the ordinary. Swiveled around to start fashioning his customary pompadour when he was unexpectedly submerged in the pulsing throb of an unusual headache, and then—

‘Double eggs on toast okay?’ Prompto’s pearl-toothed grin is more vibrant than Ignis remembers, somehow, reaching all the way up to crinkle the edges of his eyes.

‘More than sufficient,’ Ignis simply answers, gratitude blooming full in his chest. ‘Thank you, Prompto.’

‘I gotcha.’ A quick, subtle wink of confirmation, and then Prompto’s sauntering away to their modest open kitchenette, more or less leaving Ignis to his own devices.

The apartment’s as visually plain and humble as he’d always imagined, with austere pale walls and meager-looking furnishings and not terribly much scattered around in the way of personal possessions: an enduring habit from their frequent travels in the decade before the dawn. Though it’s all he and Prompto really need, what with the pitifully limited funds in their pockets and hardly any belongings or supplies to add when they’d started looking for a bachelor pad to share with each other at Insomnia’s perimeter roughly a year ago.

He slowly turns his head, one way and the next, taking in every inch of the open space stretching out around him; despite seeing it all for the very first time right at this moment, he’s always felt adequately content with having chosen this place. This has always been enough.

Emerging light from the rising sun spills through the windows in faint sprays of gold, coating a large slice of their living area in a honeyed glow – Prompto had hurriedly drawn the curtains partway closed just prior to his offer of breakfast to allow Ignis’ functioning eye ample opportunity to adjust. Something about seeing daybreak with such crystalline clarity and seeing familiar shapes again, lines and hues and shadows that he’s learned and lost long ago, is stirring up equal amounts of splendor and awkwardness in his gut: a peculiar blend of awe and the kind of unease that comes with breaching foreign territory. There’s a wooden chair to his left; a door hanging ajar behind him; metal light fixtures in the perfect midpoint of the grey roof. Objects that, until now, he’d only known are there by touch and hearing alone.

He shifts from one foot to the other on the grainy carpet, restless and hesitant. The flood of additional stimulus from the restored vision is hardly something that he needs anymore to get by, and he has to wonder, for an unsettling moment, if he still fits into the world the same way he had when he’d woken up earlier this morning.

‘So, what do you think about, like, a _feast_?’ Prompto asks merrily over the noisy sizzle bubbling from the frying pan. ‘We don’t have to go too lavish or anything like that, but hey, you got your sight back for whatever reason and we should totally celebrate in some way tonight. I’m happy to do all the cooking. You deserve a hell of a long break.’

‘That’s very kind, but you needn’t go to the trouble,’ Ignis answers with appreciative patience. Making the best of every situation is undoubtedly one of Prompto’s defining qualities, though, and no part of Ignis wants to dampen that optimism in the slightest. ‘It’s still quite necessary to not be frivolous with our food resources at this stage. I wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine, however – that, and a quiet night in with good company, sounds like celebration enough to me.’

Prompto twists his head back at that, a pleased smirk curling at one side of his mouth. ‘Good company, huh? You’re one charming talker, Igster. I’m flattered.’

‘I don’t say anything I don’t mean, as you well know.’

Before Ignis really registers it, his own feet have taken him to the simple unadorned mirror suspended on the wall right at the apartment’s entrance: a small luxury that he knows Prompto had affixed there for his own casual use.

And for the second time that morning, Ignis comes face-to-face with the price of his past sacrifice.

He’d supposed that taking charge of the funeral two years ago, and allowing adequate time to roll by, would perhaps help to dull some of the biting hurt that’d lurked in the same crevices of his chest where Noctis has always held a permanent space: a thought that maybe hadn’t been too far-flung. And he’s grazed his fingertips across the scarring over his ruined eye aplenty to already _see_ , without actually seeing, the extent to which the damage had flourished – a blossoming flower of darkened red-brown skin, coarse and ridged and burned as fierce as to fuse the eyelid shut. In a strange, calm way, he’s always known that the injury looks like this.

Twelve years of fighting against powerlessness and rising above any incapacity had more than watered down the original fury, and more than softened the sharp outlines of his grief.

Down to his core, he knows that there’s no loss in trying to keep walking tall.

‘… Oh, we should call Gladio too!’ Prompto calls out, brimming with sincere enthusiasm and guiltless delight. ‘Pretty sure he’d wanna hear the news!’

‘It may be too early for that,’ Ignis points out, sloping his mouth in thought. ‘Indulging in a glass of wine is one thing, but making an overt announcement … I still have no idea how this even came about. For all I know, some other shift with my condition may occur. I’m really not sure how to take any of this right now.’

A mellow, meaningful hum of understanding, and then Prompto nonchalantly clears his throat. ‘Think you’re gonna go see a doctor?’

‘I'd … rather not. Unless anything goes terribly amiss and I take a turn for the worse,’ says Ignis in reply, and he’s surprised at how quickly that steady decision comes; how deeply carved into his blood the solitary survival instinct still is, even after two years off the battlefield. The rebuilding efforts are swallowing up nearly all of his spare time as it stands now, and on top of that, he’s finding no comfort in the thought of being at a stranger's mercy where such a delicate matter’s concerned – regardless of whether or not said stranger may be a medical specialist. ‘None of this seems to be causing me harm, so it'd give me peace of mind to monitor my own well-being, for now.’

‘Mmm. As long as you let me know the moment something doesn't feel right, buddy.’

It's the slivers of Prompto's body heat that still ghosts against Ignis’ hip, twelve years after he’d first pressed himself into Prompto’s side and scrabbled for stable footing. And the warmth from Prompto’s hand that’d since buried itself into Ignis’ skin – permanently branded into the now-sensitive spaces where the palm had been laid flat upon Ignis’ back; or cupped securely over Ignis’ shoulder; or curled snugly around Ignis’ elbow, hoisting him to his feet every time he’d tripped and toppled over, guiding him through every stumbling step with patient murmurs of _stay close to me. I’m right here._

In all the years gone by, Ignis would’ve invested too much weight in self-reliance to submit to such a promise with willing ease. But this is _Prompto_ , whose concern and care is never less than completely genuine, and something within Ignis doesn’t particularly mind.

‘Yes, alright.’

His intact, unspoiled eye stares back through the mirror, shimmering with moisture and certainty, a healthy green.

‘Alrighty, Igster, breakfast is served,’ Prompto chirps with somewhat infectious cheer. ‘C’mon, sit.’

Without any further ado, Ignis wanders back to the belly of the apartment, and is more than willing to oblige.

* * *

It doesn’t even dawn on him that he’s staring until Prompto catches him at it red-handed.

‘Have I got egg on my face?’ Prompto’s lips purse – _there’s one_ – and lean fingertips dart hastily to the corner of his mouth.

Ignis can’t help it: he lets out a single breathy wisp of a laugh, subtle and quiet but hardly lacking in sincerity. ‘No, you don’t. It’s just … nice to _look_ , for a change.’

The word’s already slipped past his teeth before he even realizes that he hadn’t said _see_.

‘… Oh.’ Dark gold brows push up high, and Prompto blinks a few times like he’s been caught off-guard – _there’s another one_ ; he mustn’t have expected a response like that. Mild pink smudges the cut of his cheekbones, and somehow, he manages to appear a little younger for it. ‘Well, you can keep looking as much as you want, but I can’t promise you’ll find anything interesting.’

‘Modest of you, but I most respectfully disagree.’

Bright eyes squint thinly in undisguised contemplation. _And yet another one_. ‘How’d you figure that?’

Ignis slants himself forward, as pointed and conspiratorial as if he’s burdened with a delectable secret, and sets both elbows firm upon the dining table; Prompto’s hooked into Ignis’ unspoken invitation right away, following suit with excitable interest and leaning in closer over the table as well.

‘Well, you’ve got a few expressive physical quirks that are very _you_ ,’ Ignis answers with an indicative waggle of his fingers and a smattering of good cheer. ‘Silent habits that, truthfully, I’d forgotten you had. It seems I can adjust to sightlessness perfectly well and still manage to miss small crumbs and fragments along the way.’

And there’d been plenty more than that, too. A head tilt when rapt and listening; a scrunching nose of delicate amusement; a creasing forehead when plunged in thought – along with many, many others that’d caught Ignis’ attention all throughout their meal.

Curiosity weaves into the twist of Prompto’s mouth. ‘And that’s interesting to you?’

‘Of course.’ Ignis doesn’t miss even a single beat. ‘Nothing about you is uninteresting, Prompto.’

He’s sure that there’s more to notice, to relearn.

Though there’s no real rush, given that the time he has for that is now more than abundant, and there’ll certainly be much to look forward to in the days to follow.

Breakfast’s stretched on for longer than usual, rife with placid chatter about the day’s work to come and their planned night in later that evening and little else: an effective road to whittling down Ignis’ earlier concern and unrest, it seems, because right now, he’s definitely feeling much more at ease than before.

And then – ‘You know, you’re being so nice.’

The sentiment tumbles off Prompto’s tongue so abruptly that the bluntness of it knocks into the bones of Ignis’ ribs, catching him unawares.

His face slackens in surprise. It must be written into his features in quite an obvious manner, too, because Prompto instantly reacts by raising both palms open, eyes wide and urgent.

‘Wait, I didn’t mean it like that. I swear,’ he hurries to say, voice drenched with unequivocal apology and regret. ‘I think you’re _always_ nice. That’s the truth. I guess what I’m trying to say is … I know we’re not exactly, like, _super besties_ or anything, but, uh. Right now you’re kinda being more cozy and laid-back with me than what I’m used to? Not sure how to explain it, but it’s almost like I’m getting to _see_ you just as much as you’re literally seeing me, or something.’

That admittance, or some part of it, leaves Ignis’ chest feeling oddly sensitive and tender and raw.

In any case, Prompto’s hardly the first to have alluded to Ignis’ tenacious restraint and self-control. Ignis is more than starkly aware of his own qualities – of his habitual preference to keep his hands busy, his thoughts focused, his worries to himself.

‘… We’ve barely talked about much this morning.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not anything that needs a detailed conversation, or whatever. I’ve known you for nearly two decades, dude – long enough to be able to tell when there's any shift in a regular pattern.’ Striking blue-violet eyes set firm with steady conviction, unswerving and impressive, and then gradually soften again to the tune of mellow gratitude. ‘I mean, you’re hanging back to chill with me at breakfast even though I know you have tons of work to do and need to dash off. Plus all the random micro-compliments you’ve been dishing out today are giving me a _whole lotta_ sappy warm fuzzies right now, just so you know. And, hey … it’s been years since the last time I heard you laugh, before you did just then. It’s nice.’

Eager, expressive, and laid bare – but then again, so is everything else that Prompto articulates when he’s sown his entire heart into it.

Though even when Prompto’s explicitly said that he doesn’t mean it that way, and Ignis believes every word of that assurance, hidden shame still flutters unsettlingly across the hairs on the back of his neck.

He’d never needed the world of eyesight to be reopened to him to feel comfortable and easy in Prompto’s presence. Not when he’s already felt that way for years upon years. 

‘… Well, I can assure you that this – bizarre anomaly of suddenly being able to see again is far from being the actual _reason_ I can put my feet up and feel untroubled,’ says Ignis carefully, pressing dry lips inward against his tongue to wet them. It's a topic of conversation that, perhaps, they really should've delved into much more thoroughly within the steel-cold hallways of Zegnautus Keep an eternity ago, or even earlier; but things are what they are, and making up for it late certainly isn’t impossible. ‘It isn’t difficult to wind down and relax around you when the fact of the matter is, you’ve always belonged. I can promise you that having you around always means an awful lot, despite my ongoing failure to adequately express it. I daresay I do need to put in more effort to make it clearer from time to time.’

There’s an immediate tilt in Prompto’s expression: wide-eyed, brows slanting, a trace of something perilously close to _aching_. A slow, full breath in, and he visibly swallows.

Then, little by little, he gives a quivering half-smile; a barely-there upward curve that only licks like a small flame at the corners of his mouth, but is very much there, all the same.

Just seeing it, Ignis’ earlier insecurity over fitting into the world around him is already starting to crumble into dust.

‘Boy. You sure know how to make a guy feel like he’s on top of the universe,’ Prompto quips light-heartedly, the words faint and tremulous at the edges. ‘But seriously, Iggy. I appreciate that. Thanks.’

As warm and secure as Prompto’s arms around him had been only an hour ago, and just as sweet. Ignis smiles in return, soft and earnest and meaningful.

The still air between them hangs delicate, pleasant, rich with contentment.

‘… Right. Well, we really should get moving, given that we both have so much work waiting for us,’ he proceeds to say with easygoing satisfaction, nudging his chair back in one smooth motion and pushing himself up to his feet. ‘Unfortunate as it is to admit, the city won’t repair itself. I’ll clean up our dishes.’

But before he can even take a single step away from the table, something flips like a switch, right then and there.

He’d stood up a little too fast, maybe. Dizziness swirls, all of a sudden, at the peak of his brow; he squeezes his lone eye shut, and reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

‘Iggy?’

A long breath in, and out. In, and out, but the dull pounding in the nerves behind his eyes doesn’t fade.

‘Ah – sorry, I’m—’

And then everything flickers, wanes, and Ignis plummets into the dark.

* * *

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye.

Pale grey bleeds into the fringes of his damaged vision: it’s the very same limited capacity to detect shine and shadow that he’s had in the last twelve years. Nothing less, nothing more.

He has to wonder, somewhat pointlessly, if it’d been a hallucination or a cruel and tasteless fantasy.

… But no.

That can’t be it. Not when he can still see the muted simplicity of the apartment, the translucent yellow sunbeams cutting through window glass, his own mirror reflection, the gentle curve of Prompto’s smile. Not when the pastel watercolors of that early morning are still imprinted into the backs of his eyelids with enough intricacy and excruciating detail for _just a daydream_ to be impossible.

He sits up in unnecessary exasperation, blankets sinking from his ribcage and pooling at the angles of his hips. Needless to say, he hadn’t slept too well during the night; and much earlier on, he and Prompto hadn’t ended up breaking into the wine as they’d planned to, either, though they _had_ ended up spending the evening at home nonetheless.

Prompto’s companionable small talk and understanding silence as they’d simply sat on the couch together had served as a welcome comfort, but had also been unbearably telltale.

Tensed fingers skim upward to rake through bed-mussed tufts of hair. Unless there’d been some bizarre magic at play, the key question simmering in the midst of all of this is: how?

And then, suddenly—

 _The ring_.

Startled, Ignis jumps, blood thundering at the rise of his throat.

That reply just now hadn’t been some inner, subconscious voice, or anything like that; in fact, it hadn’t sprung into existence from his own thoughts at all. The mental depiction of the Ring of the Lucii had straight-up _popped into his brain_ from some unmistakably foreign source, out of the blue, as if someone’s literally just reached in and buried their fingers into his mind to plant the image there. Distinct, crisp, and clear as burnished glass.

And then, just as he’s biting back cautious alarm, warm familiarity breathes into the pores of his skin, so markedly distinct that it almost comes as the response to his confusion. A spirited childhood spent side-by-side; vibrant days and lively nights spent in sincere friendship; an unshakeable bond of brotherly love; a selfless gesture of tremendous sacrifice.

Subtle tremors engulf Ignis’ lower lip. It isn’t some ghostly _presence_ , exactly; but if it were, he’d recognize and know it anywhere.

‘… Noct?’

A vivid affirmative rings loud in the root of his mind, in the caverns of his chest, like the sparkling peal of a bell. Like a resounding answer of _yes_.

It shouldn’t even be anywhere close to the realm of probability. But somehow, in some inexplicable way, Noctis is hearing him – and for some unfathomable reason, he’s hearing Noctis, too.

Grief’s dampened into a dimmer throb over the last two years, since the day they’d stood by while Noctis ascended the Citadel’s great stairway for the last time with no hope of return. The pain of their mourning isn’t quite so thorny around the edges these days, but Ignis does still miss him sorely even now, and always will. They’re not exactly _talking_ at this moment, per se, given that Noctis has neither form nor voice to speak of; but Ignis can find some similarity in this situation to being on the opposite ends of the same hall – with Noctis being not quite so audible, but distinguishable enough as definitely being him.

So again, Ignis asks: ‘How?’

The answer comes right away – a set of gleaming images flitting past his mental sight like the quick-blinking frames of a movie being played. The Ring of Lucii glinting on Noctis’ curled finger, and then his own; a connecting line of fire-bright magic from one battle-weary hand to another, from one restless wearer to the next, from Ignis all the way to Noctis; Ignis giving himself in sacrifice to Noctis, and Noctis giving himself in sacrifice to the world; tiny flowers blossoming, citizens emerging from the dark, and the healing world gripping tight-knuckled onto the lingering remnants of Noctis’ magic in its recovery.

It’s followed by the after-traces of leftover mystical enchantment coiling over Ignis’ ruined eyes like tendrils of smoke, sinking and embedding itself into roughened scar tissue, stirring and staying, lying in wait.

A fantastical, fairytale answer that should be difficult to believe.

Noctis proceeds to go quiet, then, with no other visualized pictures flashing in Ignis’ mind. But no further elaboration is needed anyway, really, because with the odd manner in which the two of them are communicating right now – along with the mystifying restoration of Ignis’ eyesight the previous day – all of it actually makes an uncanny amount of sense. The Ring itself may be as utterly gone to the world as the spent bloodline of the Lucian kings, but from what Ignis can understand at this moment, the past utilization of its magic by both him and Noctis as its last two bearers must’ve inadvertently forged some kind of unbreakable tie between them that appears to have outlasted the lifespan of the Ring’s power itself.

It shouldn’t be feasible. It shouldn’t even be _likely_. But somehow, seemingly, it simply _is_.

The magic and mystery of the gods have always been formidable and powerful beyond ordinary human understanding, and when even a miniscule slice of it is gifted to anyone, living or dead, it’s indisputably no laughing matter.

‘Alright,’ Ignis murmurs under a racing, pounding heartbeat, sternum heaving with deep breaths, slow and constant and steady. Despite the astonishment, his own calm surprises him; this would have anyone reeling. ‘I suppose the other pressing question is: why?’

This time, the imagery that unfurls for him is a recent, clear-cut memory that he can still recall in pristine detail. Not too long before his eyesight had been returned to him yesterday morning, he’d been in the shower, mulling over all the day’s restoration work that he’s to continue spearheading in the city – and while he’d been soaping his skin clean, he’d found himself starting to wonder what the current rebuilding progress even looks like, given the two long years that every single Insomnian citizen’s poured into such back-breaking hard work. In a moment of idle contemplation lasting only a fleeting second, he’d said to himself in his thoughts: _if only I could see again_.

Stunned awe seizes him. It’d been the one and only time since Noctis’ passing that he’d even entertained the serious notion of being able to see again; of that, he’s fairly certain. He’d more or less asked for it, without meaning to, and for whatever reason, Noctis just … _gave it to him_.

It hadn’t lasted very long, though, to his recollection. ‘About an hour, give or take,’ he quietly muses to himself.

Not necessarily a question that he’s asking for a response to, but he gets a confirmation anyway: another affirmative, tinkling in his head like wind chimes. Out of nowhere, the number five stamps and embosses itself into his mind along with that reply, too.

Ignis isn’t too sure about that part.

‘What’s …? As in, five times?’

More bell-ringing, bright and sparkling, in undeniable verification.

Ignis’ pulse drums in his ears like a storm.

Five times.

That leaves him with four more.

* * *

‘… Don’t you want a day off, once in a while?’

‘It sounds awfully tempting, given how well everything’s going. But when even a single day of rebuilding can make a world of difference in getting the city back on its feet just that little bit sooner, it makes it harder for me to stay idle at home,’ Ignis says in leisurely thought, and then pulls a frown. ‘Prompto, what are you eating.’

Prompto huffs out a soft laugh beside him, and then audibly swallows his food – perhaps deliberately, to make a point. ‘Okay, okay, no talking with my mouth full. Got it. That was the last bit of it, anyway,’ he teases knowingly. ‘It was a sandwich. From this place around the corner from our apartment block. The shop just opened the other day.’

‘Ah, I think I do remember an elderly woman mentioning in passing that she was hoping to open a bakery around there.’ Ignis furrows his brows, trying to recall for sure. ‘Must be her. And to think it was just last month that the team of citizens working on that building sent in their report about wrapping up all repairs and renovations. Rather wonderful to hear that things are finally up and running, where that lady’s livelihood is concerned.’

‘You’ve done so much good, Iggy,’ Prompto replies with the kind of indescribable warmth that strangely resonates all the way down in Ignis’ belly, and then slender fingers are closing around the crook of Ignis’ elbow, cozy and secure. ‘Huh, looks like they’ve started work on the stairs up ahead. Let’s go this way instead.’

‘My thanks.’

Ignis lays a hand over Prompto’s in soft gratitude, and allows himself to be led away; the heat of Prompto’s fingers are as steady beneath his own as their combined steps on the stone pavement, and they both know that such a method of escort isn’t at all necessary nowadays, but Ignis more than appreciates the easy familiarity of the gesture nonetheless.

A tiny cough leaves Prompto’s throat, and his voice comes back somewhat small when he speaks again, laced with an almost boyish sort of shyness. ‘Yeah, buddy, of course.’

The thuds and clangs and rattles of building construction ring out all around them; it’s bound to be like this all over Eos, really, with no real way of escape, but a good number of civilians are now properly rehomed with all sorts of businesses newly rising, for which Ignis knows that everyone’s genuinely relieved. He’s rarely heard any criticism or complaint about the unremitting noise, and he thinks he understands that oddity – taking a casual stroll through the streets with Prompto during their simultaneous lunch break and hearing bustle and movement and _life_ all around them is more than comforting, compared to the ghostly wedges of silence that’d accompanied the dark years that came before.

In all honesty, he’s more than content to not take a day off from this.

‘… But seriously, you’re buried in work all day and night and you deserve _some_ rest. I was thinking about taking a trip to Galdin Quay for a day or two, just to – well, you know. Seeing as it’s just passed two years since then. Doing something a bit more special than just raising a glass and drinking a toast _every single year_ would be kinda cool, right? Even if we’re crazy busy,’ Prompto croons in suggestion. ‘Maybe you and Gladio could come with me? I mean, obviously it’s not gonna be the same without Noct actually being around, but still, it’d be nice.’

The ever-passing days have certainly made it easier for any of them to bring up Noctis’ name in casual conversation as though he were actually _here_ , but sometimes, hearing it aloud still comes as an unexpected surprise.

And Ignis knows, without needing to ask, exactly what Prompto’s looking to do – considering he himself had gone back every year throughout the decade of darkness for the very same reason. He can barely fault Prompto for craving to find even the smallest wisp of some sort of connection from the briny air and the open sea, too.

‘I’d like to think he’s doing remarkably well in death,’ says Ignis meaningfully, and is quite stunned at how boldly the words exit his own mouth. As unperturbed as if death’s something no one’s ever feared; as nonchalant as if it’s a conversation about the weather.

‘I’d wanna think that too. But sometimes I wonder if there’s, like … any way to find out for sure. It’s a weird and silly thing to think about, I know.’

Ignis’ lips skew at one side. ‘Not at all. We all want that peace of mind.’

A weighty pause follows, and even without being able to see him to confirm it, he can feel Prompto’s eyes burning into him with consideration.

Insistence tugs at Ignis’ restless fingers, unraveling his discipline and restraint thread by thread. At the end of the day, he’s never had any reason not to trust Prompto when it comes to anything; besides which, Prompto had been there when Ignis’ eyesight flickered back to life, and he’d still stayed by him long after it’d faded away again – a witness to the first fragile petals blooming, then scattering. At this point, opening up to Prompto to share in something that’s shifting the world beneath his feet this much feels sort of _right_.

So he continues, ‘I heard from him. In a manner of speaking,’ and has no regret for how bizarre it must sound.

Prompto immediately stops walking.

With his fingers still encircling Ignis’ folded elbow and tucked securely into its inner bend, Ignis is halted in place too, hooked and caught in the sudden momentum. He blinks in surprise, equally caught off-guard. 

‘—Come again?’

A level of unshielded bewilderment that makes sense, given what’s just been sprung out into the open. Ignis drags in a lungful of breath, sinks his teeth into his cheek.

He supposes that both he and Prompto are here, right now, because Noctis had helped shape their paths to cross and align. Because they’d both loved and cherished him, because they still do and always will, because they continue to keep his memory _alive_ in their hearts – and Ignis comes to wonder if, perhaps, that’s what’s managed to keep Noctis’ magic alive beyond death too, amplifying the strength of its lingering wisps, rising from dormancy to make an impossible miracle possible.

Either way, it’s a lot to explain. A lot to take in.

But he starts with: ‘You remember the Ring?’

There’s really nothing to lose.

And with that, he proceeds to tell Prompto everything.

* * *

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye.

It’s a subtle flurry of movement past the open door that’s roused him. He props himself up on his elbows, half-bleary from having broken the surface of slumber so unexpectedly; the lightweight blanket falling away from his shoulder slips from his attention, too, partially forgotten in the moment. One slow blink, and another, but only the faintest rays of dawn bleed into the edges of his extinguished vision. It must still be mostly dark outside.

‘Prompto?’

Another rustle and stir, as though Prompto’s fiddling with the fabric of his clothing, uncertain.

Ignis’ mouth gives way to the irresistible pull of a yawn, thick and languid. He swallows afterward, voice lumbering sleep-heavy and rough from this throat when he rasps out: ‘How long have you been there for?’

‘Just a minute or two.’ The answer’s modest, apologetic – and inching in little by little; Prompto’s careful step forward scrapes against coarse carpeting with a slight hitch of hesitancy, and Ignis recognizes that he must’ve been respectfully hovering out beyond the doorway just now. ‘Woke up early. Didn’t really get much sleep.’

The most logical question to come after that poises itself at the tip of Ignis’ tongue, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask what the matter is.

Because Prompto follows with a murmur, almost too quiet: ‘How come you decided to tell me so soon?’

That tugs Ignis fully awake without any further delay.

Perhaps Prompto’s tendency to carry certain misgivings like scars for countless years is partially Ignis’ own doing – he’s kept Prompto at a reasonable distance of polite, friendly camaraderie for so long that he understands how any intimate or personal gesture can hence be questioned; from what he’s seen, Prompto’s never really pried his own ribs apart to let anyone inside as closely as he’d done with Noctis, his one and only best friend who’s now gone.

Ignis himself speaks that language, comprehends that lonely vulnerability, better than most.

‘I had no reason not to,’ he says in sensible answer, cool and earnest. ‘We live sharing one roof. Besides which, you’re my friend. And moreover … I simply wanted to.’

Prompto’s next intake of breath snags in his throat.

Gladiolus had labeled the two of them as the sun and moon, once, in good humor. A fair description, given that they’d bonded through Noctis – and taken a while to do so – originally out of necessity, but then eventually came to weave themselves into each other’s paths of existence in a more comfortable embrace of their differences: respectable discipline and carefree passion, cool composure and warm laughter, ashen moon and amber sun, Ignis Scientia and Prompto Argentum. Maybe they’ve always been an unlikely pair, and are destined to remain as contrasts in many different aspects.

But they also fit unexpectedly into each other’s negative spaces, like fingers threaded between fingers, like alternate squares slotting together within a chessboard; willingness and individual choice have brought and kept them here, now, side-by-side, and the last thing Ignis would want is to stop their ever-growing branches from continuing to intertwine.

‘… So,’ Prompto then says, and even though there’s a light dusting of mild relief in his tone now, there’s still a lingering note of deliberation, of restless curiosity. ‘Noct’s letting you see four more times, was it?’

Ignis’ singular eye slides to a close, and he dips his head once in a sedate nod. ‘For roughly an hour every time. As it was the first time.’

He thinks he can guess why Prompto’s reaffirming what he’s already been told – Prompto’s bleeding heart always swells fuller than anyone’s chest cavity would normally have room for, caring and fretting without holding anything back, knowing and fearing without any whisper of shame.

In all respects, Ignis has rarely felt this scared, and right now, Prompto’s clearly just as scared for him.

‘Four sounds pretty generous,’ Prompto continues, voice tightening. ‘But at the same time, it's also not really that much, huh.’

Ignis hums in acknowledgement. ‘All the more reason for me to remain careful and wise about it.’

At this point, he isn’t even sure when he’ll make use of those privileges, or how he’ll possibly make them count.

It’s not really the time to think about that, though. The passing hours aren’t known for slowing down to be lenient toward worries and reservations, and it’s now the birth of another day; he sits up in his bed, like he does every dawn, and moves to start his morning.

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye, and puts all wayward thoughts aside.

* * *

The new Insomnian night markets are just about what he expects it to be.

A cacophony of sound, a universe of scents, a hub of life and movement. The last twelve years haven’t seen anything close to this; trade during the lightless decade had often taken place in darkened doorways and small candlelit alleys, within quiet locked-away sanctuaries shielded from the yawning black of the continuous nighttime and the dangers of the open roads. All the months following the dawn hadn’t been too different, what with survival and recovery taking urgent precedence amid the efforts to rebuild, leaving retail and corporate regrowth to shadow behind in second priority.

But the flood of activity and noise splashing over Ignis now comes almost like a burst of firecrackers, loud and merry and more akin to a festival than a marketplace, and he couldn’t have hoped for anything more.

‘You have truly outdone yourself, Prompto,’ he breathes, genuinely impressed.

‘Aww, shucks. Well, I’m glad I volunteered to do it – seemed like a fun extra job to take on between all the other serious stuff we have to do, and dude. I was right,’ Prompto preens indulgently, the summery grin in his voice sparkling as bright as birdsong. ‘I shouldn’t get all the credit, though! Iris helped a hell of a lot. Takes an expert in shopping as a hobby to know how to make a weekly market _this big_ not fall apart, if you ask me.’

‘Seems you both are deserving of compliments, in that case.’ One side of Ignis’ lips coils into the barest hint of a smile. ‘Well, then. Since you’ve worked so hard to get this entire thing off the ground, would you care to offer me a tour?’

‘Nothing would make me happier, my man.’ Prompto’s hand slips partway into Ignis’, holding half onto his wrist and half onto the base of his palm. ‘There’s a bit of a crowd, though, so hang tight.’

Ignis isn’t sure exactly what it is – impulse, or undefined craving, or instinct – that takes over and spurs him into sliding his own arm upward until Prompto’s grip is secured within his own, but before he even registers it, they’re properly holding hands. Not a gesture to think twice about, really; at least not until he suddenly notices that it’s seeming to give Prompto pause.

‘Ah – is this alright?’ he asks at length, an unexpected sliver of worry chilling his breastbone.

‘… Yeah. Just wasn’t expecting—’ Prompto replies, the response marked with equal degrees of soft surprise and slow, kindling warmth. The cushions of his palm press into Ignis’, callused skin against skin, when he offers a gentle squeeze. ‘—But hey, it’s _absolutely_ fine. Nothing to worry about at all, yeah? C’mon. Let’s go.’

Ignis knows when he’s in the thick of the marketplace by how intensely everything tides over his senses: the weight of bodies moving all around him in undulating waves, the delectable aroma of roasting meat and sugary desserts, the endless excitable chatter of innumerable voices at once, the dulcet notes of live music drifting through the air. Spots of faint flickering light trickle into the edges of Ignis’ darkened vision – suspended lanterns, if Ignis were to guess. Rivulets of heat emit from everything in his surroundings, from the density of the crowds to the damp steam of food being cooked, and as far as Ignis can tell, it’s been a fair while since Insomnia’s seen anything this exhilarating.

Currency and economy’s starting to mean something to the city and the world again, even if only in the smallest fashion; and with it, the livelihood and telltale euphoria of all the people that he’s in the midst of right now.

He’s perhaps just a little proud of Prompto for having put himself forward voluntarily during the rebuilding efforts, and having quite some hand in that progress.

‘The crafts section is over here,’ Prompto says with carefree enthusiasm, tugging on Ignis’ fingers. ‘There’s stuff like handmade scarves and jewelry, and—’

Unfortunately, the eager ramble doesn’t get further than that before Ignis’ phone interrupts them, pealing and buzzing to life within the open slash of his pocket. It’s the ringtone that he’s assigned to Gladiolus; slight hesitation and regret holds sway over his free hand as he’s fishing out the device.

‘I’ll be but a moment, Prompto.’ He strokes just once along the length of Prompto’s thumb with the pad of his own – a silent but sincere apology.

‘No problemo. I’ll give you some space and come right back.’ Their hands loosen, and Prompto pulls free; cool air swirls across the now-deserted spread of Ignis’ palm, the empty space left behind strangely stark and pronounced. ‘Say hi to the big guy for me?’

‘I certainly will,’ Ignis promises, and can sense that Prompto’s already departing with swift efficiency by the time he finally takes the call. ‘Yes, Gladio.’

‘Yo.’ Gladiolus’ greeting comes abundant with enough contented leisure to immediately put any possible concern on Ignis’ part to rest. ‘Pretty noisy at your end. I’m guessing you’re at the new night markets with Prom?’

‘He and your sister deserve the highest praise, in my humble opinion,’ Ignis answers without any shred of nonsense, and finds that he can’t quite keep the swelling approval and pride out of his voice. ‘It seems to be a marvelous success.’

‘Huh. I’ll have to get Iris to tell me all about it when I see her next, then. By the way, did Prom come to you about wanting to take a short trip?’

No remarks pertaining to the return of Ignis’ eyesight so far – Ignis knows that Prompto would never, in a million years, take the reveal of that news away from him by making any mention of it behind his back. But facing the positive proof of that still has his heart blossoming with unsaid gratitude, either way.

He chews down on his tongue, recalling the conversation from that one shared lunchtime that he and Prompto had spent walking the city streets. ‘Ah. You mean to Galdin Quay?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one. Just wanted to mention that I’m still stuck in Lestallum wrapping up some loose ends, but I’ll be back in a week or so – and there to stay. Not sure when you guys can arrange your days off work, but it’s probably better to figure out early on when that can line up.’ Gladiolus lets out a coarse sigh that segues into a loud, obnoxious yawn of evident relaxation; Ignis supposes that he’s likely at rest after a long day. ‘I already said all of this to blondie when I texted him back, but I’m guessing he’s probably been busy trying to sort out the markets these past few nights, ‘cause I didn’t get any reply. Figured I’d go ahead and tell you myself straight out.’

A familiar pair of warm hands suddenly envelop Ignis’ wrist, knotting something around it, and he stops in his tracks. Whatever the object is, it clings like a tight embrace to the natural heat of his skin – perhaps hinting at a smooth, sticky strip of leather; a ridged and lumpy texture runs along its entire length, too, as if it’s braided all throughout.

‘Iggy?’

‘My apologies. Prompto had wandered off before, and he’s just come back.’ Ignis clears his throat, frank and level. ‘He’d asked me to pass on his greetings, by the way.’

‘Hi Gladio!’ adds Prompto in blatantly high spirits.

Gladiolus snorts with amusement. The accompanying mental picture of a fond eyeroll flashes in Ignis’ mind at the humored sound, and it stings with sunlit nostalgia – it’s surreal, sometimes, to think of the three of them being well on their way back to a quieter, happier life.

‘… Alright, I’d better let you guys have your fun. Say hi back for me. And don’t forget to let me know when you’ve both figured out when you actually wanna do this.’

‘We will,’ says Ignis in reassurance, swiveling toward Prompto’s general direction. ‘Prompto, Gladio says hello to you too.’

‘Awesome. Enjoy your date. Don’t stay out too late.’

The line hangs up, somewhat infuriatingly, before Ignis can formulate any suitable retort to that obvious cheek.

Once the phone’s securely pocketed away, Ignis flutters his fingertips over the strip on his wrist, patiently reading its consistency, its contours. As far as he can tell, he’s quite sure that it’s indeed braided leather – just as he’d guessed before.

‘What’s this?’ he asks regardless, brimming with curious interest.

‘A handmade bracelet from one of the stalls! Look, there’s this silver bead on it, right over here.’ Prompto hooks bent knuckles beneath Ignis’, and directs his fingers toward a jagged chunk of cool metal. ‘It’s shaped like an itty bitty flame. Pretty awesome design, thought it suited you.’

In other words: a heartfelt offering.

Fierce war and its dire aftereffects have consumed their lives with such thorough efficacy that Ignis can’t even recall the last time he’d known of anybody giving anybody else a present – or the last time he himself had received a thoughtful gift of any kind. He swallows past the lump in his throat; clenches around the spark of firelight that’d abruptly flickered to life between his lungs.

He must’ve stayed silent for a little too long, because when Prompto speaks up again, his tone and timbre’s withdrawn into meek nervousness, wavering with uncertainty. ‘Ah … if you don’t like it, I—’

‘No, no, nothing of the sort. I just – wasn’t expecting this,’ Ignis cuts in, breath spilling from his lips uneven. ‘Thank you.’

They’ve both managed to surprise each other in some way today, it seems.

He sweeps his palm across Prompto’s in earnest appreciation, before letting their hands part and drop away; lax knuckles find the protruding ridge of Prompto’s lower back on the way down and Ignis splays long fingers over it, nudging with only the slightest pressure to steer him into the direction that they’d originally come from.

Prompto’s next inhale is sucked through his teeth in a way that’s rough around the edges while still being dimly quiet, and for whatever reason that he can’t quite define, Ignis likes the sound of it – the reactionary sound of Prompto being somehow _affected_ by such a small gesture.

‘Shall we get some dinner while we’re here? My treat,’ he murmurs with pleasure, soft and sedate. ‘I could certainly go for some of that daggerquill stew I could smell earlier.’

A sniff of casual delight, and Prompto tilts back into Ignis’ touch. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

More ease is trickling through Ignis’ veins now than there’s been in a long time; regardless of whether he wants it or not, eyesight isn’t necessarily the most crucial element to getting the most out of the world, and he knows it.

They close the night by toasting their splendid evening with the wine that they hadn’t broken into the week before, bellies full and hearts sated, _home_.

* * *

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye.

Slips of hot breath graze his collarbone; silken strands tickle the hollow of his cheek. There’s a solid weight sprawled across him, limbs twisting within limbs, bones sinking into bones. His back and neck wind tight from a night of disuse – he and Prompto must’ve fallen asleep together on the couch the previous evening after their drinks, he realizes – and strange to say, he mightn’t have minded staying like this for another second, another minute, another hour, were his stiffened muscles not crying out for relief in his current sitting position.

Or perhaps that’s not too strange at all, given everything as of late.

Fingers follow the length of Prompto’s arm all the way up to his shoulder; Ignis gently shakes it.

‘Prompto,’ he murmurs into soft tufts of hair.

‘Hmm …? Ah … sorry.’ A hazy mumble, thick with interrupted sleep, and Ignis feels somewhat guilty for it. Prompto starts to disentangle himself with a tiny groan in his throat, and an unexpected part of Ignis wonders if that noise conveys the same reluctance he’s feeling at the sudden separation and loss of warmth. ‘Didn’t mean to use you as a pillow.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Ignis replies, and means it – somewhere along the way, their repeated close contact’s begun to harbor an unexpected normalcy to it, though Ignis would never be able to pinpoint exactly when it’d started to feel like second nature. He unfolds his legs; pushes himself up off the couch and onto his feet. ‘Are you starting work later today?’

‘Yeah, I don’t have to report in until about eleven.’ The words balloon into a yawn, languorous and rounded. ‘Same as you, right? You wanna do something?’

Prompto’s tone rings more like an invitation than a question, which catches Ignis by surprise; two years they’ve lived under one roof, and indulging in random, unplanned recreation together has never really made its way into their busy schedules – or even their conversations – until now. The air between them is shifting in some way, apparent enough in the last couple of weeks for Ignis to be able to read it, nearly as palpable as the slow grind of an iceberg, as the deep outspread of roots.

He’s not sure where he pulls the reckless inspiration from, but he says out of nowhere: ‘It’d be nice to see the city.’

And just as he’d expected, that suggestion’s met with a pause of silence.

‘Are you saying … that you wanna _see_ the city?’ Prompto says eventually, pressing a pointed emphasis into that lone syllable. ‘You don’t think that’s too – I don’t know, casual?’

Ignis knows what he’s getting at. After all, he himself had openly stressed the need to be mindful and sensible about choosing when to reopen his eyesight; but in the end, there are two different ways to be _wasteful_ , and as far as he’s concerned, the less circumspect option’s never been less valid than the alternative.

‘… I’ve spent the last two years saving that bottle of wine that we opened last night. Drinking it, I felt, would be akin to luxurious and careless spending. I’d told myself that it’d be a _waste_ to drink it willy-nilly, particularly when resources continue to remain moderately scarce,’ he explains, and unwittingly skims the tip of his tongue along his upper lip; he can still taste the lingering after-traces of wine there, bold and crisp and earthy. ‘But I came to realize that keeping it locked away, and saving it for only the most extraordinary circumstances, means that we’ll never, ever end up drinking it. And _that_ , too, is very much a waste.’

More silence follows, but he knows, without any doubt, that Prompto will more than understand his meaning. There’s a subtle wet sound of tongue and teeth – Prompto’s probably just licked his lips as well, Ignis guesses – and then he’s picturing the edges of Prompto’s mouth before he can stop himself, wondering if the residual flavor of wine’s also remained behind there, soaked into the skin.

After a while, Prompto gives an acquiescent sigh. ‘Yeah. You’re right,’ he agrees, and to Ignis’ relief, the faintest hint of a possible smile lurks in the undercurrents of that utterance. ‘Well. Let’s get you seeing the city, then.’

A temperate smile unfurls itself on Ignis’ face, too.

They’ve freshened themselves up and eaten and are crawling through the belly of the city within an hour, the whirs and clicks of Prompto’s camera keeping them company in the relative quiet of the morning. There’s much imbued in the pavement and buildings of Insomnia, in the way of narratives and history – equal measures of the terror of destruction and the familiar comforts of home – and Ignis finds himself curious to see it regardless of its erratic past, regardless of its incomplete state of rebuilding. Expressing a pronounced thought of wanting to take it all in had been what sparked the first return of his eyesight, after all, and there’s certainly some meaning to be held in that unspoken wish to just _live in the moment_ once in a while.

‘Do you know where we are?’ asks Prompto idly.

Just through tracking his own steps, Ignis actually does. They’re currently quite close to the Citadel; even closer to where the night markets had been held the previous evening.

With that, he draws in a full breath, slides his visors away from his temples – then thinks, loud and clear: _I want to see_.

This time, there isn’t as much of a searing headache. Taut pressure builds in the plane between his brows, and though he still needs to press his unmarred eye closed in order for it to be tolerable, he isn't overly straining to adjust to the intake of soft early morning light and vivid spectrum of colors when he blinks it open again. Prompto’s made his way over and is standing in front of him, looking him square in the eye, by the time his vision wholly clears and sharpens; something about the gentle awe in his expression warms the space behind Ignis’ ribs, and he’s unexpectedly overcome with an unusual, overwhelming need to touch, to bridge their gap in some way.

So he reaches out, skims feather-light fingertips down the back of Prompto’s palm, and says: ‘Nice to see you.’

Prompto laughs. Deep-chested, misty laughter that carries both mirth and unshed tears, a joy so genuine that it echoes all the way down in the marrow of Ignis’ bones. Ignis lets his hand slip away, funneling hope into the chance that saying nothing else can still convey just how much he actually wants Prompto to stay, to be here with him, right now. Judging by the sunny vibrancy of Prompto’s grin, though, there’s nothing to worry about.

All around him, the city sprawls and rises, a living and breathing giantess in its grandeur – the residential skyscrapers rumbling with citizens just starting to awaken, the concrete beneath his feet pulsing with the resonance of the first few scattered footsteps of the day. A fair few tangled piles of rubble are still left over in various nooks and crannies by the roadsides, but there’s far less of it than he’d expected to see.

They’re doing a _magnificent_ job filling in every crack, fusing together every broken piece.

‘Wow,’ he whispers in a heaving exhale.

He takes one firm step, and another, and soon his feet are moving of their own accord, carrying him through the streets with Prompto following at his side. He’s lived here for a great many years of his life; despite all his travels during the decade of darkness, the memories that he’s fashioned in Insomnia since his boyhood have always remained a home for him to return to. And even now, the shadows of Noctis’ and King Regis’ unwavering presence still touch every wall, every pathway, every street corner – a somewhat poignant reminder of summer-bright moments long gone, but not forgotten.

‘This is phenomenal,’ he continues, struck by boundless wonder. He notices from the corner of his sight that Prompto’s snapping a few discreet pictures of him, for whatever reason, and all things considered, it’s more of a comfort than a nuisance. Prompto’s companionship in general is never less than reassuring, though.

They’ve been taking in the views of the cityscape and the roads nearby for close to a half-hour by the time they’ve circled back to where they’d originally been; the deserted skeletons of the stalls from the previous evening’s markets stand plain and bare a short distance away, their canvas rooftops and coverings fluttering in the mild breeze, but Ignis can almost _see_ the unseen hues and marvels of the night before like a waking dream, its lively brilliance burning like kindling fire – an illusory spectacle of gold lanterns and diverse shop displays and upbeat faces.

Even with that concocted visual fantasy, though, only the slightest tendrils of a hidden longing to stare at all of this forever ghosts along the nape of his neck; more like a shadow of an itch, perhaps, rather than a push of urgent necessity. Properly gaining his eyesight back isn’t something he’d really think to utter a prayer for these days, anyway, particularly not when it isn’t something he critically needs anymore.

But this entire morning’s been beyond superb in every respect, either way.

‘Shall we go find someplace to sit?’ he suggests serenely, reaching out again to give a delicate bump to Prompto’s knuckles with his own.

Prompto’s answering grin is luminous and honey-sweet, and for whatever reason, Ignis’ pulse may have just skipped a single beat.

‘Lead the way, my dude.’

Ignis can’t fit a proper name to whatever it is that may be slowly changing between them, exactly, but maybe such descriptions aren’t really needed in any case.

They find themselves seated together on the refurbished great stairway of the Citadel before long; side-by-side, with Prompto perched a step lower than Ignis – and they’ve just settled in with easy contentment when Ignis turns sideways to look at Prompto, murmuring, ‘Thank you for being here.’

A laughably redundant expression, perhaps, because Prompto’s always _here_. He’d been by Ignis’ side to catch his first stumble and fall twelve years ago, and he’s still by Ignis’ side now, by his own will, without any trace of complaint or reserve.

‘No sweat, Iggy. For real,’ he says, pushing away at the buttons of his camera until the last image he’d captured flickers to life on the display screen. ‘Besides which, I’d totally rewind time and do it all over again if it means getting another chance to see you like _this_.’

He extends his hands to offer up the camera; Ignis accepts without a moment’s hesitancy, reaching over and taking gentle hold of it by bracketing his hands around Prompto’s – the living heat of skin against skin intermingling, grounded and secure – before angling the device more toward his own line of sight for a better view.

The face he sees there is one that he recognizes from his youth, but hasn’t caught sight of for longer than he can recall. His own face tilted upward to gaze at a fixed point beyond the portrait, lone eye shimmering with almost childlike awe, parted lips curling in obvious rapture. An earnest reaction untouched by darkness, simple and chaste and unshielded. It mightn’t be too farfetched, he thinks, for him to say that he’s able to see exactly what Prompto’s seeing.

Because for the first time in years on end, Ignis feels okay with being looked at.

He feels – somehow _beautiful_.

His throat tightens with sudden emotion; he swallows it down and carefully lets go of Prompto’s hands and the camera, releasing a little distracting cough to dull the edge in his nerve endings.

‘… Got any more to show me?’

‘How about a _mighty fine selection_ from twelve years’ worth of photos?’ Prompto’s flowering smirk is measured and deliberate, as if he’s been planning this all along. He slants sideward, resting the entire length of his forearm flush on Ignis’ lap with camera ready in hand, and continues, ‘I brought all the super-duper best ones with me. Got the extra memory cards right here.’

In all honesty, there’s nothing Ignis wants to do more. He nods in agreement and acceptance, warmth trickling its way into all corners of his chest.

The last thing he sees before his vision fades to pitch black twenty minutes later is the unforgettable picture of a final shared night of camp between four traveling companions, whose mutual devotion burns as fiercely in their sensitive expressions as the blazing fire by their feet – as well as Prompto’s tender, incandescent smile.

* * *

Taking on a position of such governing authority back when the long darkness had just ended probably would’ve been a little less bearable were it not for Prompto and Gladiolus usually being close by.

That said, hearing that they’d be within even closer reach from this point on had only served as more of a reassurance than ever.

‘… Thought you’d be wearing a suit.’

‘C’mon, Gladio, that’s no way to greet a guy,’ Prompto remarks good-naturedly, without any serious sting to his scolding. ‘You ready to go, Iggy?’

‘In a minute.’ A lax arm winds its way through a soft sleeve, before the remainder of the generous bulk of Ignis’ outer uniform is then coolly shrugged on, tidy and secure. ‘Honestly, the two of you should be down there, rather than tarrying around here on my account.’

Gladiolus sniffs from the general direction of the office’s doorway, sounding largely unburdened by the offhand dismissal; then again, today’s a big day for him, and his jauntier mood in light of it only makes every bit of sense. ‘Alrighty, we’ll wait downstairs. Let’s go, blondie – wouldn’t wanna miss our own ceremony.’

‘Go ahead, I’ll be right with you.’ Prompto offers, encouraging and insistent. ‘Won’t take long, I promise.’

A casual, affirmative grunt rumbles in nonchalant acceptance, before sturdy-booted strides proceed to steadily make their departure – robust soles treading along the solid tiles of the Citadel hallway, and fading little by little, until they’re soon gone.

Ignis isn’t sure when things had started to feel different, when the heft and density of being alone with Prompto had begun to hang heavier than the friendly comradeship that usually branches out between the three of them when Gladiolus is around. Thick fabric rustles, as if Prompto’s shuffling on his feet; he clears his throat politely, and Ignis can hear just as much smothered nervousness tucked into the sound as the careful deliberation that he seems to be more openly showing.

‘… Hey, Iggy, um,’ Prompto starts, as though steeling himself. He then seems to gather his courage with a decisive edge, blurting out: ‘Here, let me.’

Nimble footfalls draw in, step after step, until they come close enough for the living heat of Prompto’s skin to swirl against Ignis’ in the gradually thinning space between them. And then, slender hands trail down either side of Ignis’ uniform collar, warm palms smoothing the fabric over Ignis’ collarbones flat, before sweeping further down still toward the regulation straps peeking out from beneath the coat at Ignis’ hips.

There’s a practiced care to each miniscule movement as Prompto takes time to slowly fasten each strap closed, section by section – wiry fingers holding the history of his earlier years of lonely self-sufficiency and his later years of devoted help toward others in need; embodying the same thoughtful attention with which he deftly flicks around complex firearms, or tinkers with delicate engines and machines.

Ignis has to wonder if they’ll always stand this close, if gravity’s always going to inch them closer toward each other, if Prompto’s mere presence will always lure him in the way it’s been doing lately. He also wonders, somewhat vaguely, where that path can even end.

At any rate, he knows that they’ll always be by each other’s side, no matter what.

‘I’m proud of you, Prompto,’ Ignis expresses in a low murmur, hot and subtle like a glimmer of candlelight. Every word of it reverberates down to the pit of his gut, true and wholly meant.

Prompto puffs out an exhale that's halfway to a laugh, though there’s a tightness to its undercurrent that he can't quite keep seamlessly hidden.

‘I don't hear people say that often. Or ever, to be honest.’

‘Shame,’ says Ignis with tender understanding. ‘Though it may be of little comfort, let it be known that at the very least, I can see you.’ _Even without seeing._

‘Trust me, that’s actually super-reassuring, dude.’ And just like that, the taut coil that’s left Prompto stiff and rigid starts to yield, a tension untwining. ‘I’m not as nervous as I expected to be, but that doesn't change the fact that I’ve got, like, big as hell Cor Leonis-shaped shoes to fill starting from today.’

‘That you do, indeed. But if anyone were to ask me whom I’d deem most suitable to shoulder the lieutenancy and the captaincy of the new city guard, I’d think of no one more fitting than you and Gladio – and believe me, I don’t say that lightly.’ Ignis squares his jaw, firm and full of conviction. ‘In fact, I told Marshal Leonis as much. On that, he was very quick to agree. Without any effort on my part to convince him.’

‘ _Former_ Marshal, as of about twenty minutes from now,’ Prompto reminds him, slipping what must be a wayward strand of hair back behind Ignis’ ear before his hands flit down to pull up the front zip of the coat; the heat of the fingertips brushing against Ignis’ temple smolders all the way down to his toes, keen and soothing. ‘Man, I’m pretty sad that he’s stepping back, even if he’ll still be around to help out here and there. Guess he’s had a long run and deserves to take it easy, though. But anyway … you vouched for us? For me?’

He sounds touched, in that rather sinless, innocent way that has Ignis’ heart tissue kind of aching; it’s something that Prompto’s grown used to, maybe, to walk from one day to the next just fighting and giving and then giving some more, until the blood in his veins runs dry as dust and he no longer remembers what it’s like to be the apple of someone’s eye – that is, if he’d ever known what that’s like to begin with.

Ignis can certainly relate to that, in too many ways to even count.

‘… It’s only natural that I do so. Given that I believe in you, Lieutenant Argentum.’

In all respects, he always has, through thick and thin. And knows he always will.

‘Oh. We’re using our special titles now, are we?’ Prompto moves off at last from the zipper at Ignis’ sternum, and makes to pinch and tug the fabric of the uniform on either side of Ignis’ waist, as if to adjust the crisp suiting material straight. ‘Either way, I’ve gotta hand it to you, _Governor Scientia_. It takes a really good guy to be as stupid perfect as you are and still make somebody else feel like the star of the show, y’know. I’m pretty honored.’

And Ignis stops in his tracks, because Prompto’s never talked to him like _that_.

The words themselves seem not particularly out of the ordinary, but there’s a dash of added spice within the layers of Prompto’s tone and rhythm that Ignis is sure he hasn’t heard from him before. Even with every evident trace of genuine, serious belief in the sentiment, a new fever’s also markedly lurking beneath each syllable; one that sounds like an offering of affection, a sprouting heat, an open flame. One that, Ignis is startled to realize, almost feels like it’s—

It’s a wild misinterpretation of the situation, maybe. In the end, though, twelve years bereft of sight have done nothing but heighten his capacity to read the tiny nuances and tempos and contours of others’ voices, postures, movements.

He has no idea what to make of it.

However, his own body’s responding before he can rein himself in – reaching up the short distance needed to curl a loose grip around Prompto’s outstretched forearms, then taking his time to slide both hands down the long sleeves, down the work-sculpted strips of muscle that they’re clinging to, until his fingers come to the flat of Prompto’s wrists. Prompto drags a wavering breath through his lips in surprise, lean frame heaving in place; his hands haven’t left Ignis’ waist, where they’d still been aligning the fabric of his uniform, and instead of letting go, Ignis feels Prompto’s grip actually tighten.

‘I’m far from perfect.’ Ignis inclines his head, slow and sedate. ‘But when you say such things, it does inspire me to be better.’

Their palms shift and graze, and blunt fingernails skim along the braided length of Ignis’ leather bracelet, clacking against the metal bead along the way; whatever intent on Prompto’s part Ignis may have been imagining, he’s most surely not imagining that gesture. They both let that skin-to-skin touch fall away, then – Ignis’ hands settling back down by his sides, and Prompto’s fingers casually dropping onto the crests of Ignis’ hips.

It’s no less than wholeheartedly warm, frighteningly intimate.

‘Iggy … why are you wearing the Glaive uniform too?’

Ignis chews on his bottom lip for a moment to curb the rising want to reach up again, to run callused fingertips along the raised jacquard of Prompto’s uniform sleeve cuff, to swipe soft thumbs over the bends of Prompto’s knuckles; it’s rather strange, really, to crave to touch this much – a yearning that’s well in line, it seems, with not being able to see again after being granted only the most meager tease of having his eyesight back.

Or, at least, that’s the easiest thing to tell himself.

‘… Seeing as you and Gladio and I are all made of equal kinds of meat and bone and sinew, my mantle of governor is irrelevant,’ he sighs out, earnest and straightforward. ‘A show of my rank isn’t essential for your ceremony. I have no desire to be regarded or made separate from you.’

None of them had moved to abandon the Kingsglaive attire even in the absence of an actual king, and status isn’t about to change that for anything. Not when the uniform still manages to link them together in many ways.

Prompto’s answering hum drips with amusement, trembles with appreciation.

‘You can insist that you’re not perfect all you want, but when you go around saying things like that, you’re getting _real close_ , Igster.’ He slowly pulls away, then, before wringing out an exasperated groan. ‘Can’t say the same for Gladio, though. You know he’s definitely gonna work me to the bone and twist me like a pretzel every day during sparring sessions, right? It’ll be like Crownsguard training all over again. Can’t believe he’s gonna be my captain now, no one should give him that much power.’

‘Well, he tries his best.’ One side of Ignis’ mouth tugs upward in a slope. ‘Shall we go?’

The ensuing urge to take hold of Prompto’s hand all the way downstairs, as it turns out, isn’t such an unpleasant impulse to fight off.

No less than pride and contentment brims in his chest throughout the entire ceremony to follow.

* * *

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye.

Even amid the clouded fog of leftover drowsiness, he can still freshly recall powering through endless oceans of work until all his limbs hung heavy; dragging his leaden feet home to a cool, dead silence at an ungodly hour of the night; sprawling himself out on the couch, limp and wilted, without having to think twice about it; and giving way to the drooping weight of his lashes by letting that one functional eyelid close for _just a moment_.

But he has no memory of tumbling into sleep, or of being so carefully folded into the layers of a cotton-soft blanket while he’d slumbered away.

Chances are it’s one of the spares that Prompto’s kept stored away in his closet, but regardless, it smells thoroughly like him. A fruit-sweet tendril of inexpensive shampoo; the sun and grain and spice of Prompto’s skin; the gilded warmth of a summer morning. Ignis breathes it all in, settles the hollow of his cheek flat against it. Stumbles upon an undeniable flutter between his own ribs, and marvels in secret about how fortunate he is in many ways.

Soon enough, he finds himself contemplating asking Prompto to walk the city streets with him again, to go savor the sacred quiet of the early dawn hours – curtaining themselves in the flower-soft luminance of daybreak, and dipping their bodies in the subtle heat of the rising sun. Not being able to see anything this time around would be fine, really; the very indulgence of a shared morning spent side-by-side already feels more or less like everything he needs.

In the end, no kind of miraculous magic, even that of the almighty Astrals, can outshine that.

Rolling sideways onto his back, he unfurls his limbs momentarily in a stretch, mouth skewing into a frown. So far, there’ve been too few major incidents in his lifetime that hadn’t involved divine interference or meddling in some way, which even includes the short bursts of getting his eyesight back; the more he dwells on that intimate degree of godly involvement – Noctis’ latest generous efforts of mediation and help notwithstanding – the less and less he likes it. All things considered, Ignis can confidently say he isn’t typically one to bow to a fixed destiny without a fight, and as far as being at the mercy of supreme deities go, he’d be one of the first to shout from the rooftops that even all-powerful celestial beings have their share of shortcomings.

Even if the very thought of it is, in essence, playing with fire, mulling over defiance is a temptation he can’t quite resist: he supposes that standing firm in the face of the gods’ design and will, however omnipotent they may be, can’t always be an impossibility.

And as simple as that, out of thin air, the fragrant perfume of sylleblossoms fills his lungs, and the lush taste of petals sinks onto his tongue; instinct creeps along the nape of Ignis’ neck like gooseflesh, and he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Noctis is here again.

‘Good morning,’ Ignis greets serenely. Touched with a feather-light sprinkling of humor, he continues: ‘I have to wonder if you’re just hovering around at any given moment, listening in to all the inane drivel I may happen to think about. I imagine it isn’t terribly interesting, having to wait for something of substance to respond to.’

An extrinsic and prickly rumble of disagreement rolls across Ignis’ nerve endings; it’s followed by the brief heavy lull of the call of slumber, which is then interrupted by the obvious signature flare and vivid heat of unearthly magic. Noctis is passionately protesting his suggestion, Ignis realizes – and seeming to offer the sensible explanation that he’s mostly asleep in death, other than when something to do with his magic is brought up in question.

Which is an entirely fair and logical answer; Noctis is a far better man than to delve into the privacy of anyone’s thoughts unless he’s been unwittingly beckoned to them, for sure.

‘… The sylleblossoms from before,’ Ignis goes on, swerving back to the matter at hand. ‘Were you referring to Lady Lunafreya?’

The familiar sparkling peal of a bell glimmers like stars in his mind – a recognizable signal of confirmation.

That isn’t altogether surprising, given that forming a bridge of communication between the Astrals and the people of Eos had been a fundamental piece of her job description throughout her lifetime. Ignis knows that if anyone at all had had any means of carrying solemn prayers and rose-colored dreams and bitter grievances to the gods, it’d have been the Oracle herself.

At that thought, understanding abruptly lights up in Ignis’ veins like a revelation.

‘Has she already …? Did she negotiate something on your behalf?’ he swallows around that new insight, throat tightening. ‘Is that why I’ve been getting my sight back?’

A glistening response of silvery wind chimes: another affirmative.

It actually makes sense, what with curing people of Starscourge – an affliction that’d led to worldly darkness – also being on her extensive list of abilities and former obligations; Ignis had also been plunged into the dark when he’d lost his eyesight, and if light can be brought back to one of those things, it’s perhaps not a stretch for her to assist in bringing light back to the other. A plea put forward, maybe, for one small spoonful of mercy. Having it granted is likely to be a one in a million chance, but the gods have been known to come to the willing aid of mere mortals in the form of Summons as well, so—

Ignis’ pulse hammers like thunder in his ears.

‘Noct,’ he says with cautious, kindling dread. ‘… What was the price?’

‘—Iggy?’

He’s jolted suddenly out of the pooling murk of apprehension.

It’s almost inconceivable, how quickly the warm stir of swelling affection takes its place. He hears a breathy, gaping yawn; the subtle shift and pop of limbs being shaken loose; bare feet slowly padding across bristly carpet toward him. And just like that, with hardly any effort at all, he’s pulled out of the jet-black mysteries of far-removed deities that he harbors little care for, out of the multitude of exhausting worries draining him dry, and back to the close-fitting embrace and irreplaceable scent of Prompto’s enveloping blanket.

Immense tenderness fills him to the brim. He’s home.

‘Prompto,’ he calls with ease, propping himself up on his elbows to make room. ‘Come join me.’

‘Okay.’ Prompto’s bleary reply still sags with remnants of sleep, but is overwhelmingly content; all at once, Ignis finds it awfully endearing. ‘Did I hear you talking just now, or was I hallucinating things?’

‘I was – just having a chat with Noct, and untangling a few matters. So to speak,’ he responds, pursing his lips in thought. ‘I know how strange that must sound.’

‘Nah. I get it,’ Prompto says, with no judgment or condescension anywhere to be seen. He scoots in to seat himself where Ignis’ head had just been; to Ignis’ surprise, he then coils his fingers over Ignis’ shoulders and casually tugs downward – an invitation for Ignis to lay his head back down on the cushioning of his thighs. ‘I hope he knows I miss him.’

Distantly, a bright bell rings in answer. It’s followed by a pouring cascade of poignant devotion and adoration, sore and bittersweet, and Ignis knows, without needing to ask, that Noctis misses him too.

‘He does,’ Ignis says, and settles into Prompto’s lap in complete acceptance. ‘I’d say that there isn’t much he wants more than for you to be happy.’

Fingertips twist into Ignis’ hair, stroking the crown of his head, his temple, the curve of his ear. A striking resemblance to the heartfelt, terrifying intimacy of Prompto fastening up the straps of his uniform with such weighted attention and care a few days back, and while Ignis hasn’t been at the receiving end of this kind of quiet emotion enough times to be well-versed in how it must really feel, he’s fairly sure right now that he is loved.

He’s _loved_.

Prompto swipes a thumb across the rise of Ignis’ cheek, and lets a hum of simple pleasure slip.

‘I am.’

* * *

And perhaps it isn’t farfetched to think that Prompto is, in essence, equally loved – particularly when love’s always been naturally stitched into the fabric of his blood and marrow in a manner that’s born of Prompto himself, of his quality and character and bearing, rather than being factory-produced as a programmed emotion amid the cold tiles and glass walls of some distant laboratory. Everything left in its wake, as far as Ignis himself can tell, can more or less amount to a peculiar craving and itch on Ignis’ part; if the frequent recurrence of his own unsteady pulse in Prompto’s presence is anything to go by, some of what he can hope or want to give in return may very well be growing harder and harder to deny by the minute.

Nearly two decades they’ve known each other, and Ignis isn’t sure that they’ve ever really been like _this_.

‘Made you some coffee.’ Framing Ignis’ fingers with his own, Prompto wraps both of their hands together around a steaming warm mug, and even for such a simple offhand gesture, there’s a certain kind of shift to its volume and substance and sensation that Ignis is finding difficult to ignore. ‘But I was nodding off like crazy, so like, I went ahead and drank half of it.’

It’s terribly ridiculous and charming, and Ignis’ heart has rarely felt so full.

‘I'm sure you did your best to resist,’ he quips dryly, earnest gratitude layered beneath the harmless tongue-in-cheek. He draws the mug free from Prompto’s loosened grasp, and pulls in a sip: strong with only the barest hint of sweet, precisely the way he likes it. He may possibly be a little too pleased, truth be told, knowing that Prompto is _that_ familiar with him.

Prompto puffs out a wisp of air, light and playful. ‘Didn’t think you’d be mad, either way. C’mon! You know you love me.’

Joke or not, for the tiniest fragment of a moment, Ignis’ breath just maybe tips over at that.

He can’t even decide which situation’s more tragic: the rising flurry in his belly, or the fact that years and years of stiff-backed discipline and restraint can’t do anything to tame it.

When he’s able to find words in the corners of his mouth again, there’s reckless impulse in their taste and texture – almost like they’re a delicate experiment, like he’s testing uncharted waters, somehow. ‘Would I be right in guessing that the reason you were so insistent to drop by Hammerhead on the way is because you’d be keen to lavish the same sort of attention on Cindy while we're there?’

‘I mean, you gotta treat a lady well, no matter what,’ Prompto croons in reply, both considerate and matter-of-fact in one fell swoop. ‘That’d be true even if I wasn’t dying to catch up with her after all this time, and even if she isn’t still as cute as a button.’

‘Indeed. I’m sure she’ll relish in being so indulged once you arrive.’

‘… I was talking about, like, basic chivalry and stuff. Got no plans to indulge her in anything, my man.’ Unruffled but blunt, laid-back but straightforward, as if Prompto doesn’t even have to think twice about it. ‘I mean, sure, I’m definitely the type to spoil someone when I really want to, but it’s not like she’s you.’

This time, surprise grabs abruptly enough at Ignis’ backbone that every inch of his surroundings, noise and air and space alike, grinds to a sudden halt.

There aren’t a plethora of ways to interpret that declaration. And yet, he’s not sure he knows how to ask exactly what it means.

Prompto doesn’t seem to notice his unmoving silence, though, sauntering off all lackadaisical and devil-may-care while whistling a toneless melody, and proceeding to meander around the apartment from wall to wall in order to ready the last of his gear before their departure. Ignis can hear the dulled thump of small plastic bottles; the clinking buckles of a sturdy backpack; the soft rustling of fabric as clothing is haphazardly tossed in. A busy normalcy that’s soothing enough to slowly, slowly bring him down to Eos again, and he moves to perch himself back against the window sill behind him, savoring the earthy fragrance of coffee grazing his lips and the comforting heat of early morning sunlight warming the tips of his ears.

Something about it – about _them_ , here and now, feels like a cozy partnership in many ways.

Ignis clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. ‘This is excellent coffee, Prompto.’

‘Good,’ Prompto preens, unfettered delight shimmering in the lilt of his voice. He darts back over and clutches at the base of the mug, sloping it to pilfer one more thin, noisy slurp without actually pulling it clean away from Ignis’ hands. ‘I owe you a full cup. Heck, I owe you a truckful of Ebony for all the times you’ve let some of my random antics slide.’

‘The world is all the better with your shenanigans to embellish it,’ Ignis reassures him, simple and sincere. ‘Take that as your official permission to steal a sip out of my coffee anytime from now on, should you want it.’

‘Aw, stop. You’re gonna make me swoon.’

Though that’s the core of it, really. Prompto’s always made every room he walks into just that little bit brighter – even for the blind.

Ultimately, Ignis has had twelve years to accept and overcome his eyesight loss _and_ his anguish over it; and he has. With great difficulty, and with flying colors. But some days, Prompto will do or say something immeasurably sweet and perfect, and just like right now, a single thorn of that old desperation from the earliest days of his injury will prickle under his skin alongside the steadily growing spark of a wholly different kind of yearning, and Ignis will find himself wishing—

The harsh trill of their apartment buzzer cuts through that half-formed thought.

All it takes for the weight and air within the living room to overturn is for Gladiolus to stride in. There’s something of a stout-footed, broad-chested _push_ to wrap up whatever they need to, even when nothing’s been said; without further ado, Ignis swills and drains the meager remnants of his coffee, and sets the mug down. Polished and efficient.

‘Alrighty, I think that’s everything. All packed,’ sings Prompto cheerfully, ready and raring to go. ‘You wanna drive, big guy? Or should I?’

The bent arm looping itself around Ignis’ in a comfortable and leisurely fashion, like it’s the most commonplace, ordinary thing in the world, is what does it. A secure bulk in the crook of Ignis’ elbow, an undulating body heat seeping into Ignis’ skin; and without any warning, the restless prickle that’s been niggling in secret within the deep of his stomach for who knows how long – likely from as early as the first time this trip was brought up in conversation at all – suddenly yanks itself awake, bubbling to the surface before he can stop it.

‘If it’s alright by you, I’d like to do the very last leg of the journey,’ he interjects, before Gladiolus can so much as utter a single word.

A swollen stretch of silence greets him, which he doesn’t find particularly shocking.

Eventually, Gladiolus does speak up in reply, and it’s peppered with a tremendous serving of patience, along with maybe just as much bewilderment. ‘… Not tryin’ to be a downer or anything, Iggy, but being able to see the road is kinda essential for driving. Don’t know what’s brought this on—’

‘—Ah, right indeed. You don’t.’ Without unhooking his arm from Prompto’s, Ignis stoops himself somewhat, seizing the handles of the travel bag sitting by his feet. ‘I suppose it’s about time I filled you in. And then, I have a choice to settle.’

‘Iggy,’ Prompto cuts in straight away, tight and tense and careful. ‘ _Are you sure_?’

The question comes heavy. Prompto isn’t referring to telling Gladiolus everything; Ignis knows that well enough. All things considered, the hesitant caution leaking in tides from Prompto’s query is understandable – by Ignis’ own choice, this would be the third time he reopens his eyesight. No part of it has been a game to him. No part of it should be taken lightly.

‘I am,’ he murmurs evenly, staunch and sound. A reassuring, lingering clench at their interweaved arms, and then he clarifies: ‘I know how carefree and breezy it may seem, but it feels strangely right to me. It’s unlikely that we’ll get another chance for this sort of breather any day soon, given the limited days off we have and how much work the city still has for us to do, and to be frank, I’m not even after the scenery. I’d just like to share in something worthwhile with you – both of you – while we’re there … it’d hardly be a proper reprieve, short as it may be, if I didn’t.’

An open admittance that holds equal amounts of both kinds of that earlier longing, such that it’s more or less impossible for Ignis to not recognize his own words for exactly what they are; but he grinds his teeth down on that unruly thought, and leaves it at that.

‘Huh. Aren’t you two all snug and buddy-buddy compared to usual,’ Gladiolus drawls in offhand observation, sounding oddly intrigued.

Ignis knows he doesn’t mean anything by it, but regardless, he doesn’t take the bait. ‘Living under one roof for this long tends to increase the likelihood of such a thing.’

A casual sniff of acceptance, and then Gladiolus lets out a hearty, full-bodied sigh. ‘Okay, seriously, let’s head. You drive, blondie. You guys can fill me in on the way.’

* * *

The subject doesn’t spring up again, however, until they’ve actually reached Hammerhead – when morning’s already swept by and they’re well into the early afternoon.

Laying all his cards on the table for the second time, as it turns out, isn’t less surreal of a circumstance than the first. Then again, the details of relevance are a lot to pack in: Noctis’ unexpected involvement, their mystical connection, his eyesight resurfacing, the barely understood magic behind it – and while a bout of contentious indignation is more the kind of response Ignis has been anticipating, Gladiolus surprisingly ends up saying very little.

‘I’d expected you to be more vocal about this,’ Ignis expresses bluntly, knocking back the last of Cindy’s gracious offering of crisp instant coffee. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to dampen his own simmering disquiet, and nor is it quite as good as the cup that Prompto had brewed him this morning: a mournful tragedy indeed.

‘… Don’t have much to say, when you’ve obviously already made up your mind. Look, there’s plenty of stuff that I can argue about what you’ve been choosing to do, but it’s not like it’s my decision to make, and I know how stubborn you are, anyway,’ Gladiolus deadpans, and the dull thud of his plastic chair scrapes roughly against the concrete – presumably as he repositions himself in it, restless. ‘Can’t believe it’s already happened twice, though, and you didn’t tell me. So what was it like?’

A loaded, sensitive question that quite literally anyone as upfront as Gladiolus would be curious enough about to ask, but the clear-cut openness of it still gives Ignis pause, either way.

On his left, Prompto’s chair creaks with movement, and stiff fabric rustles from a discernible shift of limbs. Then, reassuring fingers silently wrap over Ignis’ knee underneath the cool cover of the plastic outdoor table: a secret solace, a grounding anchor.

‘… You know when you’re caught up in work, as I know all three of us often are, and you’re so busy that you end up skipping a meal or two.’ Ignis straightens the ridge of his spine, hardens the skirt of his jaw. ‘At first, you very much feel it. The hunger’s torturous. You haven’t eaten since early morning, and it’s all you can think about. You find it difficult to focus on anything that’s in front of you, or anything at all, really. But after a while … the intensity of it peters out. Your body grows accustomed to that hunger – perhaps numbs itself to it. You continue to work, and work, and work, and simply forget you were hungry in the first place.’

The hand on his knee squeezes, a firm but quiet consolation that echoes all the way down beneath his skin, plucking at his nerves and his heartstrings; it’s become too easy to get used to having Prompto so close, just like this, and even easier to want to press in even closer.

‘But then you get home, and fix yourself a hot meal. And once the food’s within reach, you suddenly realize all over again how starving, how famished, how _ravenous_ you are.’ His own palm circles into a fist on his lap, sturdy and tight. ‘Successfully making do with the hand you’ve been dealt, and then getting the smallest taste of what you’ve missed out on all this time is – I suppose terribly beautiful even in all its agony, awfully gratifying amidst even its brevity … and dangerous. That’s what it’s like.’

Maybe, in the end, there’s no real way to be _wise_ about choosing when to see again. Not when it’ll always be equal parts breathtaking and painful in its impermanence, an incalculable blessing and a ruthless curse, no matter what.

Gladiolus’ answering hum comes softened at the edges. ‘Yeah. I get you.’ Staunch and certain, like he means it.

They depart Hammerhead mostly in silence.

* * *

‘… I think we’re coming to about ten minutes away. Best to start small and slow after not driving for twelve years,’ Gladiolus points out, mindful but reasonable. ‘Plus the road’s quiet as hell right now, so no one’s around to ask any nosy questions about letting a guy drive when he’s got an eye sealed shut. Good time to pull over, if you really wanna do this.’

‘Iggy?’ Prompto asks from the driver’s seat, doubtlessly looking for confirmation.

The call of his name is soft, attentive, like that calm and lazy morning a few days ago back at their apartment – if he focuses enough on the rhythm of his own pulse, Ignis thinks he can still feel Prompto’s fingers twining into his hair, Prompto’s knuckles sweeping along his earlobe, Prompto’s lap running warm beneath his cheek.

He heaves in a breath; lifts his chin; levels his shoulders.

He’s ready.

It’s only a matter of minutes later that color and picture’s saturated and filled his eye anew, as if clouds have parted to let the light through, and he’s really traded seats with Prompto, really situated behind the wheel, really _doing this_. And immediate relief engulfs him like a flood when, as it turns out, he still can; a blind man driving shouldn’t be probable as anything but a pipe dream, yet he’s here – with the nerves of his fingers still knowing what to do and the flashes of his instinct still knowing how to react, a delusion made real, a distant memory brought to life in the palms of his hands.

‘Woohoo! Dude, look at you go!’ Prompto cheers, both fists pumped in animated encouragement.

‘Muscle memory isn’t something one typically loses, even if it’s been over a decade,’ says Ignis with dim amusement and perhaps a mild smearing of heat under his collar. ‘But I appreciate that you're this excited on my behalf.’

‘Hard not to be, when you’re so badass.’ An approving gush of awe, and thrill shimmering like jewels in the remark; Ignis’ heart swells raw and tender in his ribcage, just hearing the genuine joy knitted all through it.

There’s something paradoxically _large_ about the simplicity of the moment; about the tranquil landscape passing him by, the placid breeze caressing the half-circles of his ears, and Prompto continuing to whoop with abandon as though Ignis is driving at breakneck speed instead of trailing at a moderate, leisurely pace. Ignis swivels a brief, sidelong look at him, and Prompto turns and answers by throwing back an eager, pearl-toothed grin that’s wide enough to almost hurt, that’s more lustrous than the afternoon sun, that’s creasing his eyes and mouth at the corners with such infectious enthusiasm that Ignis’ own lips can’t help but tug upward into a smile, too.

He wonders if, maybe, this is what falling in love feels like.

Ten minutes of driving is more than sufficient, in the end – hardly a passing blink in his day, but almost an eon within the miniscule window that he has. He’s just about halfway through the five chances he’d been given, now: three times is already crossing far beyond what he’d ever thought he’d get, and at the same time, not nearly enough to cover everything – all the first experiences that he’s still never had the opportunity to have, all the safe and familiar sights that he’s wanted to revisit and revel in, all the radiant gazes and crooked smiles that Prompto’s ever going to cast his way. There’s no wealth of time to chase every sliver of it; he knows that every second’s still spilling like sand through the spaces between his fingers, and that there isn’t much left to spare.

He flits a wary glance over to the car’s digital clock. His attention’s been devoured by his own upbeat enjoyment such that he’s only just now noticing that it’s actually been fifteen minutes – five priceless minutes more than he’d thought he’d spent driving – and for a fleeting moment, a wave of anxiousness rises in his throat.

But he shakes his head; shakes those thoughts away. Now isn’t the time.

As far as he’s concerned, not living his sighted hours as fully as he’s able to is out of the question. It’s _never_ the time.

The most appropriate parking space to catch his eye is aptly cool, shielded from the vivid mid-afternoon sun by a thin, dappled sheet of shadow from the few standing palm trees nearby. He’s just carefully swung into it, thoughts dissolving into relief and gratitude over the fact that his body also still remembers the ins and outs of a task as simple as parking, when a light, long-fingered hand slides over his shoulder out of the blue.

‘Everything okay?’

It’s remarkable how, any time that he’s caught up in thinking too much, Prompto can just tell.

One glimpse of Prompto’s face, though, and whatever tension may have been left in Ignis’ limbs starts to drain and fade; then again, Prompto does always tend to bring out that effect. Ignis’ opposite hand skims up and across, enveloping the palm cupped over his shoulder. A seamless fit.

‘… Not to worry. I suppose I’m just overwhelmed, after not doing this for so long,’ he says, and while he knows it for the sidestepping that it is, there’s still truth in the statement, nonetheless. ‘I imagine I mightn’t ever get to do it again, but I can’t be more thankful. It was truly wonderful, while it lasted.’

Prompto’s answering smile is tender and poignant, stinging and bittersweet, and that’s really who he’s always been: sensitive, kind, teeming with selfless care from corner to corner. Ignis can barely help the wash of devotion that instantly fills him to the brim, and he’s more than aware – right at this moment – that there’s never been any ambiguity to what that flowering throb and flicker and burn within his chest cavity may be.

He knows that it’s exactly what he thinks it is.

Even the thought of it is terrifying enough to have him buckling at the knees.

‘… Come, now,’ he continues, reining in that sudden fervor; only then do their hands slowly separate and release. ‘We have the whole afternoon and evening ahead of us. Best we go take advantage of it.’

‘Alright. Why don’t we set up the rods,’ says Gladiolus smoothly, clambering out of the back seat with buckets of fishing equipment already suspended from both forearms. ‘After that I’d probably wanna walk around for a bit, if that’s alright.’

‘Not a problem. I was thinking of possibly doing the same,’ Ignis answers, lips pursing in consideration. ‘Seems like there aren’t that many people milling about, so letting the gear sit unattended for a little while shouldn’t be an issue, should Prompto also wish to come wander.’

‘Of course I’ll come with, Igster.’ Prompto doesn’t even skip a beat, as natural and automatic as if it’s the obvious answer.

With that, Gladiolus pivots and drawls, ‘Sounds good. I’ll make a head start.’ And without any further ado, his back retreats from their field of vision, and is gone before they know it.

Ignis ducks out of the car, then, unfolding his legs and hoisting himself up onto his feet. ‘So, he’s a little more beardy than I remember.’

‘It’s the upper lip,’ Prompto mock-whispers with jovial amusement, pointedly laying the entire length of his forefinger across the space beneath his nose. ‘His mustache definitely wasn’t that thick twelve years ago.’

Ignis pushes up his one undamaged eyebrow in equal humor at that, the bow of his mouth phasing into a smile, before flinging the car door shut.

Galdin Quay isn’t quite how Ignis remembers it either, by all accounts. A touch duller, a touch less vibrant than the last time he’d _looked at it_ , twelve years back; almost like a monochrome blanket’s shrouding the landscape so that the waves aren’t quite so blue, and the sand not quite so pale. On the other hand, though, it’s also nowhere near as foul as it’d been two years ago – the stench and slick of daemon filth meticulously cleared away from the water and the air, and all cracked and broken structures seemingly repaired with rather quick efficiency, from the aging wood of the pier to the rusted metal of the railings and lampposts, as well as the everyday routines and hearts and livelihood of the handful of people around.

A place that’s noticeably been grazed by the fingertips of war, but is clearly well on the road to healing: a different kind of beauty from the pristine, unsullied purity that it used to be, but hardly a lesser kind of beauty in its recovery, either way.

‘Relax, Iggy. Enjoy the view,’ Gladiolus deadpans midway through setting up, eyeballing Ignis with emphatic insistence. ‘I know how much you love managing everything, but fishing rods aren’t really worth fussing over on the one day we get to chill. Probably better if you leave this to me – go have that walk, and take Prom with you. I can join you later if I find you, but right now you should go make the most of whatever you’ve got left of the hour.’

The frank but friendly reply of _We’ve scarcely just gotten here, and you’re already banishing me?_ is poised at the tip of Ignis’ tongue, but he clamps his teeth around it, and says nothing. In the end, no matter how bluntly he may express it, Gladiolus does always mean well.

He’s right. There’s likely less than a half-hour left, and the minutes aren’t about to stop trickling by.

‘C’mon,’ Prompto says in reassurance, reaching out to tug on Ignis’ sleeve twice with slender fingers, before backing away with a tilted grin and beckoning him to come along.

Ignis follows without a second thought; in all honesty, he’ll always, always follow.

There’d perhaps been more delicate wonder in walking barefoot with the sand between his toes when he’d had no sight to accompany it – the visual darkness had magnified every cool grain swirling around his heels, every soft crunch rasping beneath his soles. Seeing it all, however, is a separate kind of magnificence that isn’t necessarily more sublime, but stunningly different nevertheless; ultimately, he’d argue that he’s taking nothing away from the universe by absorbing every bit of this view one last time. And on the whole, he’ll never say no to having any vision of the world offered to him on a silver platter, even if only for the briefest moment.

He sneaks a glimpse at the raindrops of freckles on Prompto’s shoulder, at the ruffle of gold hair in the subtle afternoon breeze, at the pooling shape of Prompto’s shadow, at the lean angles of Prompto’s frame. Maybe, if he drinks it all in long and hard enough, he’ll somehow be able to commit it to memory forever.

‘… I’ll likely miss this,’ he blurts out, before he can contain himself.

Prompto whirls around to fix a stare on him, pupils glimmering so bright that Ignis feels its keenness kindling in his own skin.

‘Miss what?’

‘Just … _seeing_ —’ Ignis waves a flimsy hand to his surroundings at large, the sand and sea and open sky. He doesn’t move to name anything specific, though – not when he doesn’t actually mean Galdin Quay in particular. ‘ _Everything_.’

It’s strange, how a part of him doesn’t fully mean it in the specific way that he’s worded it, but it also isn’t a lie, either. It mightn’t be a devastating thing in practicality to have his sight torn from his clutches again and to return to the murk that he’s thoroughly used to, after more than a decade of seeing nothing; but whatever the case may be, there’s still that ever-present lure of yearning – that one tempting morsel of selfishness amid the endless years of stifling all of his wants.

Prompto casts him a gentle and understanding look, flaxen lashes falling low.

‘And you, also.’ Ignis’ feet come to a stop, his lungs clenching around an inhale. ‘Seeing you.’

At any rate, he does mean every word of _that_ statement exactly as he’s said it, crystal clear in every last thread of intent, firm and immovable from beginning to end.

Right away, Prompto stops too. Eyes wide, lips parted; his thin brows slant, and it’s very much a mirror of the buried ache in Ignis’ veins – an expression that manages to catch Ignis off-guard.

‘… I’m gonna be here with you, Iggy,’ Prompto says, the promise thrumming in the slim gap between them. He strides in close; takes secure hold of both of Ignis’ upper arms. ‘I’ll be here for you the last two times you decide to see, whenever that is. I’ll be here every time your sight goes away, and I’ll be here when it finally closes up shop, and I’ll be here for as long as you’ll want me to be after that. I’ll be around so much, you’re gonna find it hard to ever forget this damn mug.’ Prompto’s hands skate upward to the lines of Ignis’ shoulders, then, thumb tracing circles over Ignis’ collarbone. ‘Okay?’

And Ignis believes him.

Their gazes stay locked, level and constant. Ignis is even more aware, at this distance, of how brilliant the blue-violet streaks and mottles of Prompto’s irises really are – and can only cling to the desperate hope that he won’t forget them either.

‘How can I say no to that.’ A shuddering sigh spills from Ignis’ lips, with perhaps far more gratitude in its density than he knows what to do with. ‘Well. As long as you’d let me return the favor and be here for you, too.’

‘You mean, like you’ve always been? There literally hasn’t been a single moment since I’ve met you that you haven’t been here for me, you know.’ With that, Prompto releases his comforting grip on Ignis’ shoulders, but proceeds to extend a hand in offering. ‘Come on.’

Ignis eyeballs it for a second or two, heat swirling at the hollow of his throat.

There’s no real need for him to think about it, though – not when the crooks of his knuckles are already prickling at the very prospect of that touch. Before long, he’s clasping at all the crumbs of courage that he’s got; throwing all hesitations to the wind; reaching out without any misgivings to wrap his fingers around Prompto’s palm.

Prompto moves to amble across the sand again, then, with Ignis trailing a little behind and to the left, the linked chain of their hands dangling soft between them. It’s curious, how this doesn’t feel quite the same as their first visit to the night markets, despite the two of them also having had held hands that evening; Ignis doesn’t know whether the mood’s largely colored by the serenity of the lack of crowds in their surroundings, or the vast expanse of pastel shore and rolling sea by their feet, or the fact that his eyesight’s completely open to the world at present, or Prompto’s grasp currently being cozier and tighter than it was back then—

Either way, something feels different now.

Hand-in-hand, they feel unbreakable. They feel, somehow, like _lovers_.

It’s enough to have his fingertips trembling, to steal his breath away.

‘What I said before, about seeing everything,’ he says, when they’ve had their fill of the scenery and eventually make their way back up the dock; it’s vacated now but for their rods – Gladiolus must’ve departed on his own walk already. ‘It only means something to me when I get to share whatever joy I find in it.’

Prompto lets go of him, and turns with a step, anticipation swimming unbridled in his face.

‘… If you’d never been around for any of this, I figure I’d likely store away these chances to see and simply continue to live on without sight, as I have been.’ A somewhat limp, faltering hand curls around the rigid steel railing of the pier in Ignis’ attempt to steady himself. ‘And I do mean you. Just you.’

At that, a mild, bubbly laugh rattles from Prompto’s throat, the sound slightly quaking at the seams, but still calm. Like he gets it.

It sends Ignis’ pulse racing in an instant.

‘And what else, exactly, would you wanna share with me?’ Prompto murmurs; a minute smile plays at the corners of his mouth, tender and sunny, painfully fond.

Ignis bites his lip, drops a glance down to the bracelet circling his wrist. The dark woven leather, interlaced and inseparable; the silver fire, tough and enduring.

For whatever reason, nothing’s felt more aligned than this, here and now – as though everything’s managed to click right into place.

‘… Me,’ he answers in a quiet exhale, against the drumming of his heart, his singular eye flicking back up until their gazes hook together again. ‘All of me, if you’ll have me.’

It feels like a statement far braver than he’s ever felt wielding ruinous spells or fearsome daggers in his hands.

Prompto dips his head in an acknowledging nod, the tiny beads of moisture swept up in his lashes and the now-damp sheen of his eyes gleaming.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I will,’ he replies, each word tremulous; drawing in, his fingers drift up along the pillar of Ignis’ neck, along the slips of Ignis’ hair, along the shell of Ignis’ ear. He props himself up on the balls of his feet, bringing himself closer in height to keep them soundly eye to eye, as if to make sure Ignis really soaks in everything he’s saying, and continues: ‘And same. If you’ll have _me_.’

The scattered constellations of freckles are particularly beautiful up close.

Laying a knuckle against the angle of Prompto’s jaw, Ignis tips into him; and they meet in the middle like puzzle pieces that match, in a honey-slow kiss that’s warm and fitting and _right_ – and there’s no telling how long he spends rolling Prompto’s thrilled hum between his lips, or savoring Prompto’s taste on his tongue; pulling Prompto’s gasps in through his teeth, or sighing his exhilaration into Prompto’s mouth; twisting his fingers into Prompto’s shirt fabric, or relishing in all of Prompto’s consuming heat. But it doesn’t matter, at the end of the day.

When they eventually, finally pull apart and move to rest their foreheads together, breathless and awakened and stirred, Ignis chances opening his unmarred eye.

Pitch dark meets his sight.

* * *

The sun’s sunken away by the time they arrive at their lodgings.

Even with no eyesight to aid him, and even if the hours of the day hadn’t built themselves into each pump and surge of his blood throughout the last twelve years – tapping into the organic clock that’s cleaved to his nerve endings and heightening his awareness of every passing minute – Ignis can tell well enough. The air’s always somewhat cooler against the open pores and fine hairs of his skin in the early evening, swirling against the slice of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the jut of his collarbones. Additionally, there isn’t much light seeping into the edges of his ongoing visual darkness; artificial shine’s never been quite as luminous as the rays of the natural sun.

‘Mind getting our rooms?’ Gladiolus says a few steps away to Ignis’ right, with a peculiar flavor of purpose to his tone. ‘Take your time. There’s something I wanna talk to Iggy about.’

That seizes Ignis’ ankles, locks him right in place.

‘I, uh—’ Prompto blurts out, evidently caught off-guard. ‘Yeah. Of course.’

A skillfully reflexive fighter, an innately instinctive strategist, and yet, Ignis is somehow still left unnervingly naked and unshielded when the measured crunch of Prompto’s agile footfalls dart away: an even beat of wings taking flight. Just before that, a restless pause of unspoken hesitancy had hung thickly in their midst, and Ignis can only make guesses as to whether it’d been Prompto’s eyes that he’d felt fixing themselves on him.

Either way, he can’t help wishing that he could’ve at least had the comfort of reaching out to Prompto’s hand one more time before he’d departed. Just to press and fit their palms together, or to sweep the points of their knuckles against each other’s, or to let the peak of their fingertips touch and connect; anything at all.

The weighted silence that Prompto’s retreat leaves behind, even for a shred of a moment, is deafening.

‘… I saw you guys on the pier,’ Gladiolus then says suddenly, fracturing through the evening quiet like cracks in a sheet of glass. ‘I mean, it was already obvious to me that you and Prom have been gettin’ real close, even without us joking around about it this morning. But I didn’t realize it was _that_ close.’

The base of Ignis’ stomach turns cold; some part of his exposed skin hardens to stone.

He wonders what Gladiolus had seen, exactly – whether it’d been that very first kiss, or the ones that came after, or both; he and Prompto had spent much of the following time nestled together at the crown of the dock, seated with slack, dangling legs tossed over the edge and their fishing rods slouching from pliant fingers half-forgotten, sinking into each other’s warmth and scent and skin with lazy kisses while the afternoon sun slowly dropped away.

Untangling themselves and separating well before Gladiolus had come by to join them for the last three or so hours of daylight may not have been quite fast enough to save Ignis from any conversations that he’s in no mood to have, it seems.

Not that either he or Prompto have anything to hide, at any rate.

‘Are you planning to discourage me from seeing him?’ Ignis throws out, not beating around the bush in the slightest.

It’s hard for him not to marvel at how ironic the word _seeing_ is, at this stage; as appreciative as he is to have the chance to spend any sighted moment with Prompto at all, the hour that he’d had today had come and gone in much too fleeting a manner for his liking – it’s starting to feel shorter and shorter every time, even when he knows that not one minute’s ever been snipped off the few phases in which he’s had his eyesight back.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I’ve known him for nearly two decades, Gladio. As have you.’

‘Wow. You’re _really_ flinging those walls up, huh.’ A robust, full-chested sigh; it heaves with a ripple of expectant knowing, as if Gladiolus has already suspected all along that Ignis would put up a fight. ‘Look, I know I can be kind of aggressive about some of my opinions, and the fact that you don’t think right off the bat that I’m here to cheer you on is pretty telling. I’m sorry that it’s gotten like that. For real.’

If anything, an apology’s hardly close to what Ignis had anticipated to hear spilling from Gladiolus’ mouth. For the second time, he’s halted in his tracks.

Truth be told, it’s almost second nature to have been that defensive when Prompto’s so tightly wound into the matter. But Ignis smothers those walls down. Draws in a level, unhurried breath. Flattens his lips shut with sober tolerance.

‘We’ve all been broken in some way. Put back together. And hell, we’re still showing chipped pieces here and there, even two years after it all wrapped up for good,’ Gladiolus continues, with no sting of condescension to his words. ‘Seriously, however rough or temperamental I’ve been about certain stuff in the past, I do care. You’re both family to me. And I guess … I was just wanting to say that it’d give me peace of mind to know that you guys are doing alright and navigating everything well and are—’ An unexpected gust of air; perhaps a hand-flap of nonchalant composure. ‘—Y’know. Totally aware of, like, every part and parcel of what you’ve gotten into. So you don’t end up hurting yourselves or each other.’

‘We’re grown men,’ Ignis points out insistently, blunt and cool.

Gladiolus gives a light sniff, his apparent patience remarkable for how admittedly strict Ignis is being with him. ‘Never implied otherwise.’

There’s a muddled knot in the underbelly of the sentiment, though – a midway point between trying to rein assertive emotions in, and a seemingly earnest concern and care. But Ignis knows it’s entirely harmless; the tautness along his shoulder blades unclenches, the tension within his gut set free.

‘You aren’t wrong about us having been broken. But that won’t segue to our ruin; on the contrary, I’d perhaps argue that our recovery can only be faster in each other’s space and presence,’ he explains, the previous quick fire to his tongue now eclipsed by a more casual ease. ‘He’s come to mean a great deal to me.’

‘Yeah. Thought that might be the case,’ Gladiolus murmurs, emitting a slow, hefty exhale. ‘I’m happy for you. Really. If anyone deserves normalcy and stability and happiness, it’s you.’

It sounds so effortless to Ignis when spoken aloud – not at all like he’s lived and endured thirty-four long years, a ruthless war, a frightful injury, and unbearable loss to reach this point.

But still, in the end, he’s here.

‘… Thank you.’

‘Honestly, Prom seems to be pretty tight-lipped about really personal stuff around me, but if he had to be dating anyone, I’m pretty glad to know it’s actually you. He could use that good in his life, and I totally mean that as a compliment.’ Gladiolus absentmindedly clicks his tongue, laid-back and sociable. ‘So, how long?’

Ignis has to wonder if that’s what they are now – if _dating_ is really the right term; the word seems so trivial and inconsequential, juvenile and simple, compared to all that they’ve been through and the bottomless depth of every spark of connection, every tide of pain, every flutter of sorrow and gladness, every swell of unequivocal warmth that life’s fed them throughout the years. A heavier, meatier expression is likely better suited, but for now, he supposes that it’s not such a bad thing to start small.

‘It was going to lead to this for a long time,’ he replies thoughtfully, and he’s aware that it isn’t a direct answer to the question, but the way he sees it, it’s more than sufficient. ‘Maybe it was always.’

He hitches up the hem of his sleeve; scratches idly along the square of his wrist.

For a moment or two, Gladiolus doesn’t say anything else. But eventually he does speak up, remarking: ‘I didn’t peg you as the decorative bracelet type.’

‘Prompto gave it to me,’ Ignis answers straight out, scraping dulled fingernails over the sticky-sleek leather, the clean jagged bead. ‘Out of the blue, no special occasion or purpose. Admittedly, it was well before we were really – anything, so to speak.’

‘He did?’ A steep upward tilt in inflection, painting obvious surprise. It’s followed by a crude grunt, approving and impressed. ‘ _Damn_ , though. If you think about it, that’s pretty smooth.’

Silk-soft, breathy laughter shakes itself loose from Ignis’ ribs, and he sensibly tugs his sleeve back down. ‘In hindsight, I suppose it is.’

The cut of his mouth relaxes into a smile, the usual upright discipline within his spine untwisting; a hushed, peaceful lull settles across the spread of his brow.

‘… Astrals, you’re _this_ far gone.’ Gladiolus’ awe comes across as an altogether curious fascination, but still markedly considerate, sensitive, sincere. ‘You really do love him, huh? As in, the real deal.’

He loves all of them, really, in a numerous array of shapes and hues and textures. Loyal devotion to Noctis; affable camaraderie with Gladiolus; tender fondness for Prompto – set apart by striking difference, but none more or less valid and real to him than the others, even now. A family.

Though Prompto does, indeed, generally sit on a separate plane to the rest; either way, Ignis answers nothing. There’s no need.

‘Speak of the devil – looks like he’s coming back with our keys,’ says Gladiolus, and that’s that. Then, in a more outward, far-reaching manner as if he’s addressing the foyer around them at large, he booms: ‘Glad we ended up deciding to split rooms instead of sharing a big one, by the way.’

‘Oh? How come?’ Prompto’s approaching voice asks, his rapt interest obvious.

‘‘Cause I feel like getting some shut-eye early, so I’m gonna need a room to myself. You and Iggy can share,’ Gladiolus monotones flatly, although the deliberate intent in his voice rings clear as morning, such that Ignis can hear it. ‘Don’t stay up too late, though. We’ve got a long drive home early tomorrow.’

‘But you’re driving, so us staying up late shouldn’t matter. Right, Iggy?’ Prompto sidles up – boot-soles squealing against tile and mischief decidedly lurking up his sleeve – and swings his hip sideways into Ignis’ until their bones knock together.

He’s responded to with a pointed jangling of what must be metal keys; the bump and rustle of a bulky travel bag; and a bone-dry, belly-deep grumble of, ‘Don’t push it, blondie.’

Soon enough, Gladiolus’ solid, firm-set footsteps ebb away.

With that, Prompto doesn’t even hesitate to let loose. ‘Does this mean that we get to share a bed?’ he suggests optimistically, once Gladiolus seems to be well out of earshot. ‘I mean, I know we used to share beds a few times back when we were traveling around with Noct, but this time it’s totally different.’

A low hum of amusement rolls from Ignis’ lips. ‘I’m afraid that with our limited funds, I could only book separate single beds,’ he replies, gracious and regretful. ‘But that’s not to say that you can’t have the sleepover you want once we get home. Goodness knows I’ll have plenty of space, any time you’d like to come by my room – or I could come by yours. Either works for me.’

They’d plunged themselves into this short fishing getaway in reverence of Noctis’ memory, and unwittingly managed to find much more than what they’d originally come for; Ignis makes a quick mental note, then, to say an appreciative _thank you_ for that someday – after all, he and Prompto have a lot to be grateful for, now and always, whether Noctis already knows it or not.

Prompto trills with singsong cheer like he’s sixteen all over again, coiling slim fingers around Ignis’ straightened elbow and squashing a pillowy cheek into the rigid summit of Ignis’ shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything for Ignis to know that the answer’s a yes.

* * *

‘Well, if it isn’t Governor Scientia.’

The thin arch of Ignis’ eyebrow pushes up, and a subtle twitch ghosts at the edges of his lips. ‘Is this your attempt at being professional, Lieutenant Argentum?’

‘I mean, technically I’m still on duty right now, even if we’re wrapping up for the day,’ says Prompto with easygoing leisure, stepping in close to drape warm fingers against the nape of Ignis’ neck and planting a delicate, lingering kiss on Ignis’ mouth; Ignis tilts downward into it without any further attempt to fight the rise of his own smile. ‘But hey, I guess every time I’ve had to be professional in the past, I’ve just been _me_ , so why stop.’

‘Because there are about twenty guardsmen still here finishing off their afternoon training, and nobody wants to see you guys being gross in the gym,’ Gladiolus cuts in, frank and deadpan. ‘Now you’ve gone and traumatized them with your mushy flirting. Get outta here.’

‘Says the guy who can’t stay away from cheesy romance novels, but sure,’ Prompto answers with sunny mischief, offering a feather-light, affectionate swipe to Ignis’ cheekbone with a single knuckle – perhaps deliberately, to some measure. ‘Who are we to disobey the Captain’s orders, right?’

They’re shooed well out of the gymnasium before either of them can say anything else, Prompto’s merry laughter echoing up against the lofty roof the entire way.

The Citadel hallway catches more silence between its walls than the training quarters when it’s this late in the waning afternoon, and despite the yawning stretch of its width, no wandering voices or tapping footfalls seem to be cracking into the mellow quiet around them: an unintended bubble of privacy that Ignis can always appreciate at any given moment. There’s no one else around – just Ignis and Prompto and nothing more than the vast, empty space cloaking their shoulders, which is more than fine by him.

‘Sorry I got us booted out,’ says Prompto pleasantly, one part sheepish and two parts considerate. ‘I hope it was actually me you were coming to see, and I didn’t, like … interrupt any official business?’

‘I _did_ come to see you,’ Ignis replies in reassurance, submitting a meaningful squeeze to Prompto’s slackened elbow with his fingertips. He then reaches into the gaping slit of his pocket; pulls out the broad strip of leather that’s been tucked in there all along. ‘I came to give you this.’

With that, he holds out his hand in offering.

At first, he gets only unmoving silence. But then, little by little, Prompto shifts, and two enveloping hands slowly come to cradle either side of Ignis’ own; both an answer and a question all at once, the demure touch inquisitive, examining.

‘Ah … it matches,’ Prompto’s murmur comes out small – maybe even somewhat meek.

Ignis tips his head, a fleeting half-nod. ‘I sought out the same vendor at the night markets that you got mine from and requested to have this one made custom, since I supposed that flat and wide wristbands are more your style and brand, as they seem to have always been.’ He drags the pad of his thumb across the grain of the stripe, as if to make a point. ‘But the bead is every bit the same – I’ve had a good look at mine the last two times I could see, and I daresay it matches you, too. I hope you like it?’

‘More than. Iggy, this—’ A thin exhale, quivering and unraveled, and Prompto clears his throat. ‘It’s stunning. For real. What the _hell_.’

Faint pleasure bubbles through Ignis’ parted lips in a soft, breathy laugh. ‘Given your apparent approval, and given I can’t see it, I assume that it’s exactly what I asked for and not … neon green, or something of the like.’

‘Oh, it’s _totally_ neon green,’ Prompto tosses out with a graceless snort. ‘No, it’s dark brown, Iggy. Just like yours. Exactly like yours.’

The corner of Ignis’ mouth bends, playing a wisp of a smile. ‘May I put it on you?’

‘Mmm. Please.’

Hardly a precise mirror of when Prompto had fastened up his uniform for him a while back, but in many ways equally serene, as far as Ignis is concerned. Maybe only the subtlest tremble consumes the slender bones of Prompto’s knuckles as Ignis’ fingertips skim the toil-roughened skin of his wrist; as Ignis nestles the back of his palm within one hand; as Ignis clasps and tightens the strap with the other.

There’s no mistaking that he’s having just as much of an impact on Prompto as Prompto’s had on him, all this time – and bearing such clear witness to it, however sightlessly, may admittedly have his pulse thrumming louder at the peak of his throat than he’d ever have expected.

Ignis strokes the length of the closed wristband with finality, before letting go at last; a perfect match for a perfect match.

‘… All done.’

Only a single step in closes their leftover distance. Warm arms snake around the mild dips of Ignis’ waist until the two of them are pressed flush together, and Prompto sighs out, ‘Will you come visit me at work some more?’

‘Of course,’ Ignis rumbles low in his chest, and moves to fold his arms around Prompto’s shoulders in turn, snug and secure. ‘You’re a hard one to stay away from, Prompto Argentum.’

A lone arm peels away from Ignis’ ribcage and hoists itself high behind Ignis’ back; even without seeing, Ignis knows that Prompto’s regarding the new leather strap with guiltless admiration.

They stay there in the hallway, hooked deep into each other, for a long while yet.

* * *

Hot breaths lick like a slip of flame against the corner of his mouth.

‘Hey there, moonbeam.’

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his unspoiled eye.

‘… I haven’t heard that one before,’ he murmurs in the shape of an oncoming yawn, lax and droopy and indulgent.

A fleeting, playful nibble and languorous smooch at his bottom lip, and then the sturdy weight and blooming heat sprawled across his chest lifts away; a pointed fingertip prods idly at the hollow of his cheek. ‘You know, you said the same thing the first time I called you Igster. Glad that one grew on you.’

‘Hard not to, _sunshine_ ,’ Ignis answers with gentle humor, trailing curved fingers along the rumpled cotton of Prompto’s pajama sleeve, ‘when it’s admittedly rather endearing, coming from you.’

Mottled fragments of half-forgotten sighted memory have always lurked beneath his eyelids from time to time, mostly as feelings and sensations rather than images, shifting between luster and shadow. He still holds a bleary reminiscence of stirring awake with burnished gold creeping across his bedcovers like trickling honey; with drops of light from the approaching sun beading in the whites of his eyes; with the yellow glimmer of daybreak reflected on the pale half-moon tips of his fingernails.

But waking up with Prompto curled and tangled into him, tight and safe and soothing, is an entirely different kind of wonder altogether.

As if in echo of that thought, Prompto says with tender delight, ‘Thanks for letting me stay.’

‘You’re welcome to spend the night here as often as you like,’ Ignis points out with perhaps the faintest underlying whisper of shy nervousness – like another layer’s just been peeled back to carry him closer to being stripped bare. He slides the cushions of his palm over the bend of Prompto’s hipbone, and continues, ‘Even if that’s every day.’

The first mellow warmth from the burgeoning dawn smears across all the scattered patches of Prompto’s exposed skin that Ignis can touch, and Ignis doesn’t need to be able to see him to know how temperately lovely he’d look right now, washed in emerging rays of sunlight; but thinking about it is enough, maybe, to rouse a dull pang of longing that rattles against his bones. Two more one-hour slots isn’t particularly enough to glimpse Prompto from every possible angle, to see all the hidden parts of Prompto that he hasn’t yet gotten to see.

But he bites down on that sliver of wanting, swallowing it whole. Life can’t always give way to generous indulgences, and the world isn’t obligated to sate anyone’s budding cravings for anything.

Seeing is a privileged luxury, not a right, and Ignis knows that time’s running out.

‘I’m so lucky, you know that?’ Prompto replies a little breathlessly, as if he isn’t too many heartbeats away from being choked up. ‘Sometimes I actually have to remind myself that this is real.’

Because Prompto has a tendency to think too humbly, too lowly of himself at times, as far as Ignis can tell.

Just hearing it leaves the column of his breastbone stinging.

‘That’s my line,’ he manages to push out, lips moving against the soft wisps of Prompto’s sleep-mussed hair, every bit of the sentiment fully meant.

They lie in tranquil silence for all that’s left of the dawn, limbs twined together amidst the pleasant heat of twisted sheets, the warm fragrance of last night’s slumber, and the hazy quiet of the coming morning.

* * *

‘... That may not be necessary,’ Ignis suggests, chewing down idly on his tongue. ‘Factories everywhere have already long reopened to cater to the most important life essentials – I’d say there’s a promising abundance of them with regard to food, toiletries and personal care, health, what have you – and our current state of trade isn’t lacking. I actually think it’d be wise to accumulate our finances before so much as considering building another factory near the city.’

The minister releases a curt grunt of acceptance, though also sounding somewhat unconvinced. ‘What would you propose, then, Governor?’

‘I’ve formulated an idea for additional transit lines that I’ll bring up at the next meeting.’ Out of the blue, Ignis picks up on a string of resolute footfalls that he’d recognize anywhere; with that, he pointedly clears his throat – a decisive conclusion. ‘You have my word that it’ll generate a hefty surplus of new jobs for the unemployed by next month, if it ends up being approved and if we work quickly. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

Without loitering a moment longer, he starts to sweep down the hallway, and sure enough, the familiar footsteps slow down upon his approach; exactly as he’s expected. A wordless gesture of beckoning with two fingers, and Ignis is then making a beeline toward his office with the even treads following close behind.

Once inside, Ignis swivels around on his heel, taut brow loosening. ‘Been a while since I saw you last.’

‘You know, I remember a time when you felt so beaten down that you couldn’t bring yourself to say stuff like that, or _nice to see you_ , or anything that involves _seeing_ in some way.’ Talcott strides in close, clapping a friendly, encouraging hand over Ignis’ shoulder. ‘But look at you now, literally taking leadership of Lucis just like this. Suits you pretty well, if you ask me – I always did think you have the best sight of anybody I know, even when you can’t use your eyes.’

It’s not wholly accurate, given that Ignis’ eyesight has now reopened thrice since it’d initially been lost to him, but Talcott’s declaration gives him pause regardless.

After all, running an entire realm and trying to sculpt it whole again is indeed a colossal responsibility – a duty that requires immensely sharp hindsight, insight, foresight in many different aspects.

‘… What makes you say that?’

‘It’s just you in a nutshell? And hey, the fact that you’re so willing to take on such a massive job and actually genuinely _want_ to work to help people is a bonus, too. I mean, you could’ve just damned it all and left everything behind to never be seen again, which you’d have every right to do, but I know that you actually care about what happens to people.’ There’s a hard, wet sound, as if Talcott’s clicked his teeth together matter-of-factly. ‘You aren’t just some royal retainer to the Prince anymore, yeah? You’re Ignis Scientia, a leader in his own right. Seriously, I’ve chatted to a lot of people in the last couple of years … gotta be honest, they all look at you and see hope.’

Hope.

It’s hardly a stretch for Ignis to say that the exact kind of departure that Talcott’s just suggested had actually called out to him, a cold and hollow siren song, initially and early on. Packing his bags and closing himself away somewhere on his own while the rest of the world lay in ruin would’ve been a well-deserved vacation, as far as he’s concerned.

But Talcott’s not wrong about him: as selfish as he could’ve been after stretching himself so dangerously thin, and after all that he’s given of himself throughout the years, it isn’t in him to not care.

At the end of the day, it’s a position of governance that he’d taken gladly and readily indeed, despite it resulting from a price that he still believes Noctis shouldn’t have been forced to pay. Things are the way they are and generally irreversible, however – unshakable gods, inscrutable magic, immovable prophecies and all – and he knows that the least he can do is to honor Noctis’ legacy, moving forward.

‘That’s very kind of you, Talcott.’

And then, all of a sudden – as soon as the very concept of celestial magic’s so much as vaguely crossed his thoughts – everything around him dissolves like a curtain’s been pulled back; like the surge from a running faucet’s started to thin away in its trickling; like all sounds and smells and sensations have been tugged into a pause, soft as falling feathers, quiet as cotton wool.

Just like that, Ignis knows with swift, startling clarity that Noctis is back.

Without even a single second wasted, foreign and peculiar images begin to dart past his mental sight once again – a crisp and crystalline picture of Noctis, alive and well, seated on the throne as King; Ignis, Prompto, and Gladiolus standing by him as three hardy pillars, serving at his side; Ignis ascending the steps to the throne at an untroubled pace and bending himself at the waist into a deep bow; Insomnia’s cityscape brimming with a kaleidoscope of colors, unburdened by destruction, unblemished by darkness, as it’s kissed by the fingertips of a flaxen sun.

From what little he manages to catch in the fleeting glimpses of himself, Ignis can almost surely say – to his astonishment – that his eyes look to be keenly alive, and that he’s _sighted_.

A clipped inhale snags in his throat. It doesn’t make any sense: a passing spectacle of familiar faces, familiar settings, familiar structures, but the scenario itself is as impossible and alien to him as having the world unexpectedly roll in the opposite way. Almost like he’s just been shown a different circumstance. A different outcome. A different universe.

His lips have barely parted to ask what any of it means when his mind’s eye slides back to an empty slate of darkness and the silken veil around him drops away, and he knows by the manner in which everything sharpens in focus again that Noctis is already quickly gone.

He’s left wildly reeling, short of breath. Submerged in more questions than answers. Beyond unknowing of what to do with whatever it is he’s just seen.

‘… I hope that Prompto encourages you to relax once in a while, though, considering how hard I know you work,’ says Talcott generously, seeming unaware and unsuspecting of the abrupt, turbulent windstorm that’s just swept Ignis away and back. ‘Whether or not you already think that it’s already enough of, like, a reward and a relief to come home to him every day.’

That catches Ignis’ attention at once – yanks him right out of the mental fog.

‘Ah. He told you.’

‘Yeah … he did.’ A gentle, sinless blend of sheepish and pleased that speaks volumes, more than ever, of how kind and young at heart Talcott always is. ‘Totally wasn’t expecting that development, but hey, you two together actually makes sense.’

The sentiment rings openly considerate, modestly genuine; Ignis’ only answer is the faint, coiling tendrils of a muted smile.

‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’ he stirs up and says eventually, lifting his one undamaged eyebrow with emphasis. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here just to shower me with praises or to talk about my relationship.’

‘I mean, those aren’t the _main_ things I came to do, but I can do plenty more of both over dinner anyway.’ Talcott audibly pivots on his feet, then, as if making to leave soon. ‘I was hoping to grab a bite to eat with you and Prompto and Gladio tonight, seeing as I’m in town. Figured it’d be a good opportunity to rescue you from all the piles of work you have to do too, while I’m at it.’

‘How very cunning.’ Ignis reaches his hand out, pats Talcott’s upper back with affable agreement. ‘But I’d hardly say no to that. Let’s go.’

* * *

‘You don’t even have to be saying anything and I can still practically _hear_ you brooding from five feet away,’ Prompto remarks from the doorway, pointed and attentive.

Ignis turns over just enough in the bed to reach along the edge of the covers, folding them back in welcoming invitation. ‘I suspect it’s one of my many talents.’

‘Takes a perceptive guy to admit it,’ Prompto huffs out a merry laugh, and ambles forward to climb in behind Ignis, the warm expanse of his bare chest running flush against Ignis’ back. A sturdy arm wraps around the slight hollow of Ignis’ waist, and Prompto seems to notice that Ignis has stilled, because he goes on to say, ‘Is something up?’

A hanging beat of tense, hesitant silence drifts by; but Ignis soon sweeps his tongue over his teeth, a little more resolute. ‘I was just thinking about something Talcott said the other day, when he came to see me at work before we went to dinner,’ he admits, idly circling faint spirals into Prompto’s wrist with his thumb. ‘Oddly enough, you quite literally said something similar just now.’

‘Oh, what was that?’

‘He said I had the best sight of anybody he knew.’ Ignis’ free hand closes into a lax fist around a scrap of his blanket. ‘I don’t know, you’d think that when those close to me see me as perceptive, I’d be less …’

He doesn’t particularly want to say the word _afraid_ out loud.

There’s a tiny, wet sound, as if Prompto’s chewing thoughtfully on his lip, and then soft fingers thread into the spaces between Ignis’ own. ‘Nothing wrong with feeling anxious, Iggy. Seriously, in your shoes? Not gonna sugarcoat it, _anyone_ would be biting their nails.’

Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s that he’s spent so long managing everyone and everything, hardly allowing himself any mistakes and trying to work integrity and perfection into all that his restless hands put effort into, that failure or flaws or weaknesses aren’t always an easy pill for him to swallow.

As it is, it isn’t often that a blind man has to spend each passing day weighing his options so as to decide exactly when he’ll be willing to permanently lose his eyesight all over again for the second time: a situation that’s rather an irony in itself.

Prompto’s right. For something like this – something that’s near-impossible to _not_ keep thinking about – anyone, not just him alone, would come close to buckling and crumbling under pressure.

‘… Right. Perhaps I need to tell myself that more often,’ Ignis sighs in acceptance, giving a mild, appreciative squeeze to the flat of Prompto’s palm. ‘I won’t deny that there’ve been many an occasion over the years when I’ve toed the line between doing what’s proper or right, and doing what I want … especially when Noct’s life was hanging in the balance. That said, I find it difficult not to question my own perception when I _do_ cave to my wants sometimes. Even though I’m well aware that that shouldn’t have to be the case.’

‘You’re allowed to be selfish once in a while, too, you know.’ Prompto hoists himself up, then, pulling their intermeshed hands apart, and slipping warm fingers beneath Ignis’ sleep-shirt, across the lines of Ignis’ ribs – naked skin against skin – in an attempt at consolation. Velvety lips trail lazy and affectionate along the back of Ignis’ ear, and down, down to the tip of the lobe, with Prompto continuing: ‘You gotta let yourself have more of what you want.’

However feather-light the contact may have been, the heat of it charges straight into the base of Ignis’ backbone anyway; he stirs to life, inhale snagging in his lungs.

‘… And if it’s you?’

He turns over beneath the weight of Prompto’s arm until they’re somewhat more face-to-face, pulse hammering at the roof of his mouth.

Even without being able to see him, Ignis can faintly read the raw earth of Prompto’s scent and the grounding drum of Prompto’s blood-beats; there’s almost a dim undercurrent of electricity in the way Prompto thrums against him, rousing, alert, alive.

‘That feeling’s plenty mutual,’ Prompto says with purpose, and there’s no ambiguity to the now-uneven stumble of his breathing, or the single knuckle tracing a path to Ignis’ waistband. ‘So like, take me.’

He shifts and curls over Ignis’ chest as if in anticipation: fluid, sleek, slender.

Ignis wastes no time in tugging at Prompto’s wrist – an earnest request and call – and there’s no resistance when Prompto folds under the touch and follows, meeting Ignis’ kiss halfway.

Sometimes, it feels surreal. The lush and pliant languor of Prompto’s mouth gives way to let Ignis through, and their lips and tongues slot luxuriously like they’ve always been made to match; Ignis has to pause for a second to swipe his thumb over Prompto’s slackened bottom lip without really pulling back, reading the steady proof that Prompto’s really here. Almost like a test, just to make sure that they’re _both_ here and waking and real, before Prompto slants forward with urgent impatience to chase their kiss again.

Ignis skims his fingers over Prompto’s thigh, licks with fervor into the seam of Prompto’s lips and arches his head back when their mouths skid and catch – the rigid bone of Prompto’s hip burrows into his waist like an anchor and he basks in it, in the brokenness of that open-mouthed kiss, in the way it keenly glides with such little rhyme and structure to it that it’s hardly even a kiss anymore.

Even then, it’s still as fiery and incredible as it gets.

Stray fingers make good on the promise that they've already begun to make, idly playing with the band of Ignis’ sleep-pants: Prompto’s rounded nails delicately rake over the strip of elastic, as if wanting to delve underneath, and the barely-there touch is so little, yet _so much_ all at once. It hardly even makes a sound amid the harsher gasps that they yank clean from between each other’s lips, or the damp slide of their tongues together, but it jars a hot spark alight in Ignis’ belly nonetheless – and only a matter of moments afterward does he realize that the low, guttural noise of desperate thrill that he’s hearing is actually scraping out through his own teeth.

He’s already halfway to ruined, just from a kiss, and he knows that he’s more or less doomed.

Prompto heaves across and forward until he’s hovering above Ignis, folding a leg over to cage Ignis’ tightly on either side; Ignis takes that opportunity to lean up, his mouth dropping to the slender column of Prompto’s neck, stamping sultry fever into the curved junction with parted lips and nipping wetly at the subtle vein protruding from Prompto’s throat. Here, Prompto’s masculine, heady aroma is particularly inviting, and Ignis can’t help breathing it in when he softly bites and sucks at the tender pulse point.

The sharp hiss that Prompto releases in response gusts against Ignis’ hair, the peaks of his fingertips digging into the meat of Ignis’ bicep.

‘… How do you want—?’

‘Anything. I’ll take anything,’ Prompto cuts in, like he’s flinging all inhibitions out the window. ‘I just _want_ , period. Honestly, dude, you have no idea how much. Please don’t stop.’

Truth be told, the thought of stopping hadn’t even crossed Ignis’ mind, and he can more than relate to that flare of yearning.

So he pulls Prompto down more flush and secure on his lap, tongue skirting alongside Prompto’s adam’s apple, licking at the salt of his skin. Prompto answers the invitation without delay, grinding his hips down in small tentative circles like he’s still kind of reading the terrain, a slow-igniting tease of sensation and molten fire; but however mild and curious it may be, the firm line of his cock starts to obviously thicken in his pants with no hint of shyness to it, and _god_ , just like that, Ignis’ cock swells straight away in shameless enthusiasm, too. There’s a stuttering exhale at his temple and he has to wonder what expression Prompto’s wearing right now – whether his pupils have dilated inky and large, whether his lashes are spraying shadows over low-lidded eyes.

Without his sight, the smolder of every point of contact leaves Ignis starving. He grips onto Prompto’s waist, rolls his hips up against Prompto’s movement in search of more friction and relishes in how seamlessly they’re rutting into each other, how exquisitely their hardened cocks fit together, how deliciously snug the valley of Prompto’s clenching thighs are when Ignis rubs with abandon into it.

He’s not sure he’s felt anything this good in his life, and he knows it’s because _it’s Prompto_.

‘These,’ Prompto pants thinly, scratching tiny whorls at the line of Ignis’ waistband again and then pawing at the hem of Ignis’ top, ‘have really gotta go.’

Ignis hums in agreement, and Prompto hardly waits a moment further to make a beeline for the buttons of the sleep-shirt to get them open. Prompto’s fingers have tangled comfortably into Ignis’ own by the time they’ve both managed to pull the shirt off in some messy semblance of a coordinated effort and tossed it over the edge of the bed; it doesn’t take much longer than that for the rest of their clothing to join it – with Prompto straightforwardly, efficiently shucking off his own pants and underwear first, and then wriggling himself backward to help work Ignis’ down the rest of the way for him, away and off, once Ignis had tugged them down as much as he can reach.

To Ignis’ surprise, there’s less terror than he’d anticipated in their complete, vulnerable nakedness. Almost like it’s more natural than anything.

‘Shit. You’re _gorgeous_ ,’ Prompto breathes, and more than ever, being unable to look at Prompto in return has Ignis’ gut churning with a pang of regret. Before he can reply, though, Prompto quickly goes on, ‘I mean, I already knew that, but damn, it’s definitely gotta be said out loud more often. Please tell me you’ve actually got some stuff here?’

‘Nightstand,’ Ignis answers simply, waving loose fingers toward the general direction of the bedside. Prompto clambers his way up and leans across him, creaking the bedsprings underneath with his traveling weight; the dull scrape of a wooden drawer opening then follows, along with the muddled clattering of a hand groping inside. ‘Wasn’t sure whether I was jumping the gun by wanting to have it all ready and waiting, but regardless, I didn’t want to be caught unprepared if we ever found ourselves in the moment. Glad I listened to my own instinct.’

‘Yeah, not gonna lie, it’s pretty hot that you’ve already thought about doing this,’ Prompto says, maneuvering back to where he’d originally been, perched on either side of Ignis’ knees. Beyond the distant click of a plastic cap and dribble of fluid that Ignis vaguely registers in his hearing, Prompto continues, ‘Call me weird, but it’s even hotter that you’re so organized about it.’

Ignis raises an eyebrow, blunt but meaningful. ‘That’s just me being me.’

‘Exactly.’

And Ignis is barely allowed time to process the surge of adoration that wells in his throat when he hears that, because Prompto’s already bent over him again with warm palms wrapping over his thighs, slick tongue branding fire down the firm line of his stomach, mouthing honest eagerness across each slate of muscle – sending Ignis’ nerve endings pulsing, blazing all the way down to his ankles with just how much skin is pressed against his own. Prompto’s sigh comes out hot against Ignis’ navel when he dips a wet lick into it, against Ignis’ hipbone when he ghosts soft lips across it, against the inside of Ignis’ thigh when he lightly grazes his teeth over it.

It’s too easy for Ignis to slip under the surface, to drown in the devouring intensity of it all; his fingers coil into sturdy shoulder blades with a rush of fond appreciation, before inching up along the nape of Prompto’s neck.

A subtle breath slithers over the sensitive tip of his cock – the only warning he gets. And then, all of a sudden, it’s engulfed completely in an overwhelming, narrow heat.

The jagged gust of air that leaves Ignis’ lungs comes out in shattered pieces.

‘ _Prompto, ah, god_ —’

His toes curl, and weakened thighs tremble with the effort to stay steady. A near-impossible task, when Prompto’s mouth on him is _this insanely good_ , slippery but scorching, messy but perfect. Everything around Ignis fades and falls away, constricting more and more until it tapers to only this – the damp pressure pushing up against the underside of his cock, the pliant lips caressing and circling at the crown, the sweet tiny kisses being laid along the shaft, the butterfly-soft tongue swiping at the slit.

He twists taut fingers into Prompto’s hair and shudders out a groan, straining not to buck into him; there’s no saving Ignis now, so thoroughly lost in this slow, flowering euphoria when all he’d used to know was the ruler-straight pillar of his own spine, the stern discipline sculpted into the line of his own jaw, the bitter bite of his own self-restraint.

‘Please,’ he straight-up whines, and the answering purr of elation that Prompto gives him tremors all through the mouth around him, rippling between his hips, leaving him shaking.

Prompto slinks in place like an ebb and flow, the fingers of one hand wound around the base of Ignis’ length and mouth working up and down in undulations, and even amid his own flame-lit haze Ignis can somehow detect an odd pull and shift in Prompto’s movement; almost like there’s more pressure in his upbeat than his downbeat. Almost like Prompto’s driving his body into something behind him.

Reason carries Ignis back to hearing the lube being poured earlier, and his heartbeat skyrockets.

‘Prompto, heavens, are you—’ he asks, breathless, ‘—pushing back into your fingers right now?’

Smooth lips slide off him with a tiny smack, and Prompto leaves an affectionate final lick along the head. ‘Damn, dude. Spot on.’

Ignis’ mind immediately numbs and goes dark.

He can only imagine what it looks like, sightless as he is, but even the mental visual he gets from it is obscene. And more than that, his thoughts are already running away further before he can stop them – to the hanging suggestion of a deep, slow fuck that he really hopes Prompto wants just as badly as he does; he rests his knuckle beneath Prompto’s jaw, and tugs up at once in request.

‘Can I – would you mind if I helped?’

Prompto lets out a noise of acceptance and rises, melting into the summon.

It’s a bit less difficult now for Ignis to rein himself in a little, to make this last as best as he’s able to. Prompto shuffles forward, drawing himself in closer; Ignis takes that momentary beat in time to prop himself up on his elbow and tug his fingers along the bend of Prompto’s hip, reading him inch by inch, feeling bones writhe and warm skin shiver beneath the contact. And then he moves, tracing over the gentle knolls of Prompto’s ribs, across the hard muscle of Prompto’s chest, down the rigid plane of Prompto’s stomach. It’s the only way he can see without sight, but regardless, it more than takes his breath away.

‘—You’re absolutely stunning.’

‘I’d say that about you ten times over, you know,’ Prompto answers matter-of-factly, taking Ignis’ hand into his own with warmth; thick liquid trickles onto and coats Ignis’ fingers in a wet slip, before Prompto directs their joined hands toward the small of his back.

‘I mean it. I’ve never felt luckier, with or without sight.’ Ignis trails a fingertip down, unhurried, between the cleft of Prompto’s cheeks and over the puckered opening. Prompto’s next exhale judders, his entire body clenching, and there’s no telling whether it’s only from the touch or from the sentiment too. Maybe it’s indeed both. ‘You really are so sublime.’

It’s still strenuous to have to stay patient and take due care when Ignis is already this keyed up, but with just how much he wants Prompto to feel good, he does manage. Swirling a digit against the ring of muscle in reverent respect of the permission that he’s been given, before pushing in – and Prompto’s breath hitches immediately, catching behind his teeth in a wavering, gratifying whisper of _oh, shit_. Prompto opens up for him beautifully like petals unfurling, a smothered tremor climbing the folded lines of his legs, and Ignis splays his free hand over Prompto’s hip to steady him; he draws his finger back, and then presses into the tight heat again, prickling all over from the searing ache of fantasizing about it being sheathed around his cock.

Another pull back, another push in. Again, and again, an even but hungry rise and fall, before he eases another finger through; Prompto soon shifts, bowing closer and curling a hand around Ignis’ bicep to ground them both, working himself down and up along the length of the digits in languorous glides like he _needs_ to be filled, like he can’t get enough of the burn and stretch. And Ignis almost reels from how spicy as hell that really is – he hoists himself higher to lick urgently against Prompto’s mouth, and gets a sharp, bright whimper kissed into his lips in response.

He’s barely even come to add yet another finger when he knows he’s gotten far too close to the sensitive bundle of nerves inside, because Prompto jerks suddenly, a much hoarser growl rasping from his lungs.

‘That’s – if you keep going, I’m really not gonna last,’ he rambles, almost winded, and nudges at Ignis’ arm with a fist in pleading; Ignis acquiesces, withdrawing his fingers completely. ‘Damn, Iggy. I need _you_.’

‘I need you, too.’ Ignis grits his teeth, clawing a grip around the tough knobs of Prompto’s knuckles like they’re a lifeline. Even when the last few minutes have left him mostly untouched, he’s as painfully hard as ever, cock furnace-warm and leaking and so ready for more that he can’t think straight.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait.

Prompto pushes on with relative immediacy and without much ceremony, efficient in using his sight to help with getting Ignis’ cock quickly gloved and slicked up with no fuss, and even through the cool and slippery latex it feels wildly incredible when Prompto finally, _finally_ sinks down on him; slow and careful, taking Ignis in little by little until he’s fully seated against Ignis’ hips – and Ignis is already praying that Prompto adjusts to the stretch soon, because he’s so hot and tight around him that it almost feels like being intoxicated past the point of repair. A sensation that’s mind-blowing beyond words, and he can’t decide whether he wants this to hurry along, or whether he wants it luxuriously drawn out.

Until Prompto braces a hand on Ignis’ chest and starts to move his hips, first in little grinds and then in longer, sinuous slides, up and down, and the trifling decision flies out of Ignis’ head entirely.

He bites down a groan and pumps his own hips upward in turn, hooking thumbs and fingers around Prompto’s thighs to anchor himself even though he’s already being swept away – swept into the delectable rhythm, into this all-consuming fever, into a world of nothing but Prompto and the indulgent stroke and drag of his own cock inside the endless, constricting heat.

‘Iggy, god, _yes_ ,’ exits Prompto’s mouth in broken pants; fierce and burning, keen and fond, as marvelously dirty and unashamed as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.

Somehow, even with his nerve endings already so ferociously alight, Ignis is still left ravenous.

Craving to drive even deeper, he reaches further backward with both hands to splay a grip over Prompto’s cheeks, spreading them apart – and Prompto immediately responds, altering his angle in a slight curve to accommodate however much more Ignis can push in, clenching around Ignis’ cock with such stunning pressure that it mercilessly wrings a cascading litany of ‘You’re so tight, so hot, _so good_ ,’ straight out of his throat.

And amid everything, he can’t help but wonder what all of this actually looks like. What _Prompto_ looks like, right now.

Just like that, temptation starts to creep into the tunnels of his veins.

All in all, he knows that impossible miracles are on his side. He knows that it isn’t fair that other people who are blind don’t get to do what he’s able to. But either way, the power’s within his hands, whether he’d asked for it or not. The last thing he wants is to waste it on anything unworthy; and as far as he’s concerned, Prompto’s the furthest it gets from unworthy.

Maybe, if he burns this moment into his sight just once, he’ll remember it every time they do this again, and can hold the memory close and tight for all his life.

_You gotta let yourself have more of what you want._

Whatever happens, he wants this. He wants to see.

With that thought rooted in mind, the hollow black curtain over his eyes rolls back. Muted colors and textures start to sharpen, coming to a gradual crisp focus in the steely darkness of the room. Clear-cut shapes and angles pour into his frame of vision – the fluid bends of Prompto’s outline; the healthy sheen of sweat-dampened skin; the languid flow of Prompto’s movements as he rocks himself on Ignis’ hips. Head arched back, lips slightly parted in a quivering, filthy moan.

It’s one of the most striking, devastating views he’s ever taken in.

And then Prompto lets his chin drop down again, emitting long rivulets of breath, raking a heavy-lidded, wanton glance over Ignis’ face – until their gazes meet and lock.

Eyes circling out wide, Prompto immediately slows. Comes to a stop, such that Ignis stops too. Sags his features in unmistakable shock, before his entire expression then proceeds to fall in dismay.

Seeing it freezes Ignis on the spot.

‘… _Iggy_ ,’ Prompto says sorely. The murmur’s quiet. Vulnerable.

It stings with a tone of guilt and self-deprecation, as if he’s already accommodating bleak thoughts about being undeserving. As if he’s never been openly admired like this in all his years. As if he’d never once imagined that Ignis would, or should, choose to look at _only him_ when he doesn’t even have much of a chance to see again after this.

In many ways, the modest humility is Prompto through and through.

But still, it’s more heartbreaking than Ignis can take.

He grasps Prompto’s waist on both sides, hauling him upward and off in an easy slide, and cleanly flips them both over until Prompto’s the one who’s supine on the bed with Ignis poised on top. Then, without even a second’s hesitation, he slots in to a compact fit between Prompto’s thighs, reaches down to carefully line himself up with firm fingers, and pushes straight into Prompto again.

Prompto gapes in surprise, stares at him with wonder. Flushes a faint streak of pink at the ears, looking for all the world like he’s seeing stars.

‘You’re truly beautiful,’ Ignis murmurs, meeting him straight in the eye, as hot as the throb between his hips. He digs a thumb into Prompto’s ribs and fucks shallowly into him at first, a sure and steady tempo on sheets that are already crumpled in contrast; soon enough, Prompto’s hissing through his teeth with exhilaration, folding his legs up and around the arches of Ignis’ hips to cradle him warmly with his thighs – and Ignis takes that as his cue to graduate to longer, deeper, faster strokes, to chase the prior momentum. ‘I can’t get enough of you.’

‘That’s my line,’ Prompto shoots out breathlessly, without missing a single beat. He grapples one hand at Ignis’ side and slips the other into the gap between them, jerking at his own cock with uneven, sloppy drags while moving to meet each thrust; Ignis curves a little more to accommodate him and flicks his gaze down for the quickest, briefest moment, down past delicate freckles littering pale skin, to take in the exquisite sight of Prompto working on himself in earnest. And hands down, it’s just about one of the most amazing things he’s ever seen, alongside Prompto himself.

Ignis doesn’t think he’d ever tire of looking at him, as wrecked and near-delirious with rapture as he is beneath Ignis’ touch right now, and in whatever way he can have him long after that.

‘So good – I want to see all of you,’ he gasps, even though it’s coming out as a babble at this point, but he wants Prompto to hear it, either way. He can tell that Prompto’s nearing the precipice as fast as he is when he releases the grip on his own cock, canting his hips upward instead to rub more firmly against Ignis in a desperate hunt for more friction; Ignis answers by sinking down close, pressing in flush and tight to magnify the electricity in that contact, and rounding out the motion of his own hips – which evidently manages to hit _just the right angle_ , judging by the little spurt of precome that wets Ignis’ stomach, the rougher cry that’s wrenched past Prompto’s teeth.

There’s just so much, from the bite of Prompto’s fingernails in Ignis’ skin to the warm shards of his breathing against Ignis’ jaw, a beautiful wealth of contrasts in his smooth bends and pointed corners, in his sensuous lines and firm muscle, in his supple yielding and fervent giving. It’s enough to make Ignis’ control slip, to coil around the oversensitivity of both their cocks, to pull at the building tension between their hips, to wind the heat between them taut – and soon enough, white-hot and soundless, the dam breaks, and they’re pushed over the edge.

Prompto’s gorgeous when he comes, blond hair clinging to his forehead and skin tinted rosy, an untamed groan pouring from his lips in splintered fragments and thighs clenching around Ignis’ hipbones tightly enough to bruise; it doesn’t take long for Ignis to follow, sigh shaking from his lungs and fingers scrabbling at every last slip of indulgence while they ride out the rolling wave to its very last, to its ebb, to its waning, to its fading.

Ignis can’t even recall the last time he’s felt anything as earth-shattering as this.

And then, everything around them slows, quelling to a mellow haze. They’re sweat-slicked and sticky, heavy-limbed and boneless, sated and never better. It’s almost a shame for Ignis to have to carefully pull out, to untwine himself from Prompto, to separate them into two again.

‘Iggy … your eyesight,’ Prompto starts, with a sliver of boyish diffidence. ‘I know I said that you should go after what you want, but—’

‘I wanted to remember how this looked for as long as I live,’ Ignis cuts in immediately, settling right up close to him. He reaches forward, framing long fingers against Prompto’s cheekbone, and meets him eye to eye. ‘It was worth it. _You’re_ worth it.’

Prompto pauses, visibly swallows. Stilled seconds pass them by before he moves to brush his knuckles over Ignis’ own; sweet, delicate, both a silent and resonant love letter all at once. Ignis angles himself forward, mild and smooth, and presses his lips with reverence to the inside of Prompto’s wrist – then to the outside. Right along the stark black of the barcode.

A shuddering breath catches in Prompto’s throat.

‘You’re quite the sight for sore eyes,’ Ignis goes on, staunch and sincere. ‘ _Sunshine_.’

The nickname doesn’t come out quite as playfully as the first time he’d used it, but it’s no less heartfelt and affectionate in its seriousness, all the same.

Prompto leans in without any hurry, laying a full, lingering kiss to Ignis’ mouth, and Ignis breathes deep, soaking it in within the number of heartbeats it takes until they reluctantly break apart.

‘… We’ve still got a lot of time. And I’m pretty sure I’ll have another round or two left in me after we properly clean up.’ Wiry legs slide across to bracket Ignis’ hips anew. ‘So, hey, should we give you more to remember?’

Ignis wouldn’t say no to that in a million years.

He’s still submerged in Prompto’s heat, in Prompto’s scent, _in all of Prompto_ , when the hour’s passed him by and they’ve written enough memories to last him a lifetime – again, and again.

* * *

_Ignis. Over here._

A placid voice, hovering somewhere behind him in the all-consuming dark.

He knows that this is a dream by the misty quietude, the waves of velvet rolling across his skin, the feather-soft haze of pitch black shrouding him on every side. He’s, in fact, already well aware of it even before he turns around to _see_ Noctis standing close by: a double impossibility, when Noctis is long-dead and Ignis also doesn’t actually have his eyesight right now.

The gentle grin that Noctis casts him is marked by slightly older age in a way that Ignis has never seen before – the elapsed years creasing the edges of his lips, the square of his jaw set sharp with ripened maturity, and grey-black streams of hair dripping with more regal grace around finer-cut cheekbones. Tendrils of familiar scents drift by: the same crisp fragrance of Noctis’ shampoo from twelve years ago, as well as the dim musk of his usual cologne. Yet another impossibility that Ignis knows is nothing more than a representation within his own imagination, but it’s more than enough for him to be certain that Noctis is really here.

It’s really him.

‘… I can _see_ you,’ Ignis points out, with maybe just a touch of bewilderment.

A dark eyebrow hoists itself up, cheeky and simple. ‘Did you ever doubt it was actually me, sending you those weird mental messages all this time?’

‘No. I could _tell_ it was you.’ Emotion tangles into a knot at the summit of Ignis’ throat. ‘I knew. It always felt like you were happy for me.’

‘That’s ‘cause you and Prompto are sickeningly cute,’ says Noctis, scrunching up his features in mock-distaste. ‘And sappy, and gross, and perfect. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

A half-broken breath shakes itself out. ‘I’d hope that you’re just as happy.’

‘More than good over on my end, Specs. Don’t you worry about me.’

The faint smile that Ignis manages to lay bare in response to that trembles at the corners.

He doesn’t know why they’re here, or if there’s any reason at all. Maybe there doesn’t need to be one, though. Maybe the fact that this just _is_ is enough.

‘… I won’t lie, it’s refreshing to be able to see you face-to-face. I don’t believe our prior method of communication was terribly effective, however thankful for it I may be. Especially seeing as the two most recent occasions wherein we’d tried to talk, I was either interrupted, or the line cut off suddenly, so to speak.’ He politely straightens his backbone; composedly squares his shoulders. ‘I’m just – I mean, is there anything at all you can tell me? There’s so much I still don’t understand. Last time, you showed me a vision of _you_ being alive and well, sitting on the throne with Gladio and Prompto and I standing by you. I can’t make heads or tails of any of it.’

‘What I showed you was a possibility,’ Noctis explains, frank and forthright. ‘It’s obviously not the world you know, and it doesn’t technically exist at this stage, but you can call it an _existing possibility_ regardless, which is a completely different kettle of fish. You can think of it as, like … a Verse Two of our lives, maybe, dependent on decisions and outcomes and all that sort of stuff. Now that I’m dead, I can see it. I can see pretty much everything.’

As staggering as the revelation is, Ignis isn’t too astonished to hear it. After all, there hadn’t been that many other options as to what that vision could’ve illustrated; he’s sure that if another life, another world, another timeline did indeed exist, it isn’t entirely farfetched for Noctis to be alive within it – thriving and prosperous, with all three retainers still at his side.

His chest throbs sore and tender, just thinking about it.

‘… So here’s the interesting thing. I’ve learned that, since I died to fulfil a prophecy, my life wasn’t _cut short_. I died exactly when I was meant to. My life pretty much had nothing else to offer.’ Noctis squints his eyes a fraction, furrowing his brow in meaningful contemplation. ‘But you could also totally argue that that particular path was only set in stone after a certain point in time, and after certain choices were made. Before that, saving the world without losing my life probably wasn’t practical or realistic or whatever, but it also wasn’t _absolutely_ impossible, depending on certain conditions. Like … it wouldn’t have mattered if destiny had a ninety-nine percent chance of pushing me one way, that other one percent still existed, you know what I mean?’

Thundering heartbeats pound all the way up to Ignis’ ears. If anything, he can definitely guess where this is going.

‘But anyway, you know me, Specs. I did what I had to, but you know I wasn’t throwing a party over it or anything. Gladio knew it, Prompto knew it, Luna knew it too. It sucked, being caught up in some dumb fate that I had no hand in causing, and having to make a hard choice that at the time was basically shown to me as the only choice.’

‘So, back when Prompto walked in on our conversation, while I was asking you what the price was to restore my sight multiple times the way you have been—’

‘—The price was the loss of that possibility. That so-called one percent.’ Noctis lifts his chin, leveling Ignis with a keen, pointed stare. ‘Something happier that I could’ve had, that I _did_ have as an option at one point, but was ripped from me and straight-up disintegrated as soon as I was veered the other way, ‘cause that’s just how it is. You stand toe-to-toe with a god, there’s a chance they’re gonna look at how small you are and lay claim to your life as a tool for whatever the hell they see fit – which isn’t actually much of a life at all, given how little control I ended up having over where it’d go.’

And knowing that still hasn’t stopped stinging, even years on. In the end, they were always more than just king and advisor; they grew up together. They were friends, brothers, tighter than blood.

Ignis had done everything he could for him.

Noctis offers him a reassuring smile, however, as if to say: _I’m okay now_.

‘So Luna, being Luna, helped me out by waking all of them up and using that as a bargaining chip. I’ve served my purpose, so I couldn’t really barter for anything in relation to _me_ ; but if I were to ask for something a bit more worldly, so to speak, the gods seemed to be somewhat more receptive.’

Ignis’ lips part and circle out, jaw hanging loose.

‘So you had Lady Lunafreya help you negotiate with the literal _Astrals_ for me to get my eyesight back a few times,’ he says with outright astonishment, ‘and they just _agreed_?’

‘Hey, I never said it went that easily. All that haggling and convincing took, like, pretty much an _age_ , and I’m not kidding about that, seeing as time runs differently when you’ve kicked the bucket. It probably would’ve been a few weeks from your point of view, but it was definitely a lot longer than that for us,’ Noctis answers smoothly, raising an eyebrow with casual patience. ‘Anyway, after everything I’ve been put through, I wasn’t gonna just sit there quietly being dead forever without trying to squeeze as much out of those guys as I possibly could. Luna’s always been a champion at getting pretty much anyone to be more open-minded to whatever she’s saying, so like, I didn’t even have to prove myself all over again to make the deal, or even vouch for you, or any of that. They knew both of us already, for obvious reasons. And I mean, a lot of Astral-derived magic can take stuff away, but they can just as easily give those things back, too. Five times, even.’

From what Ignis can ascertain, all the pieces fit. The initial loss of his eyesight had been the blood price for borrowing a celestial power beyond his mortal capabilities; in turn, the advance payment of an already-collapsed potential parallel timeline certainly sounds like a substantial enough trade to have that seized vision restored – particularly when Ignis remembers, from what Noctis had shown him, that he hadn’t even been blind in that alternate world.

It makes perfect sense, and he has no answer for it other than to simply stand there, dumbstruck.

‘… Do you need a minute?’

‘Even in death, you’re insufferable,’ Ignis flings out, tutting at Noctis’ nonchalant humor. ‘But I suppose I owe you the most immense gratitude for what you’ve so kindly given me.’

‘You don’t owe me anything. I mean, I was the reason you got caught up in everything and lost your eyesight to begin with,’ Noctis replies, swerving back to mindful seriousness right away. ‘If anything, this kinda just makes us even.’

‘If I had to do it all over again, I still would’ve followed you,’ Ignis says with a straightforward nod of acceptance, and a pang in the cavern of his stomach. ‘I have to say, by the way, that it’s rather a shame that I’ll soon be on my fifth time. Quite unfortunate to have to lose the fruit of your generosity.’

In a cold, clinical, and practical sense, there’s no real need for him to keep seeing, especially considering what he’s been given already, and how much happy contentment’s slid into his life by now; but Prompto unwittingly strays into his thoughts for the nth time, and the immediate surge of longing that follows isn’t so easy to turn a blind eye to. He knows the way the world works – it’s not always terribly lenient, and it’s hardly ever going to give people what they want – but still, at this point, it’d be a lie to deny that he does want. He _wants_ , and there’s such a raw, helpless burn and barbed ache to its crux, to want something so much when in all his life he’s bred and raised and conditioned himself to only give, to only serve, to never put himself first.

With a small upward tilt at the edge of his mouth, Noctis says in mysterious suggestion: ‘Well, I managed to make a _teeny tiny_ amendment to the agreement recently, just by being extra stubborn and persistent. Who knows what you’ll get if you wish hard enough, right?’

Ignis blinks, caught off-guard.

He can’t possibly be saying what Ignis thinks he’s saying.

‘… Wait. What do you mean?’

But then he’s flying backward through the hollow dark; tugged away from Noctis, away from the transcendent murk, and breaking the surface of slumber into waking.

* * *

He stirs to life with the steady ripples of that deep-set yearning still swirling like smoke from his lashes, still lingering like a prayer on his lips.

‘Good morning, moonbeam,’ Prompto mouths softly against the scarring on his cheekbone, breath hot as firelight, syllables honey-warm and heavy.

Something heaves in the cleft between his lungs, across the plane of his brow, as if alive. A cosmic weight that cradles Noctis’ leftover magical signature from corner to corner, as far as Ignis can tell; oddly, there’s a kind of unusual finality, an unexpected _permanence_ to it that Ignis can’t quite explain. Almost like the world’s started grinding the opposite way, for whatever reason – or as if a switch within his blood and bones has just flipped for good.

He pulls in a slip of breath. Swims his way through the last thick residues of sleep. Pushes up, up into open air and brightness and color.

In the flourishing half-light of sunrise, Ignis opens his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I love these boys, and I love happy endings. :) They both deserve to be so happy … believe me, even if this story had a different ending where Iggy didn’t get his eyesight back for real, I’d say that they’d STILL be the happiest they’ve ever been (which is why I don’t call this fic a fix-it; I don’t think anything actually needs “fixing”, I just gave Iggy the ability to see permanently as a nice bonus because I love him). I did everything I could to make sure of that!
> 
> Anyway, if you made it all the way to the end, thank you so much. Writing this has been such an incredible journey (a long and epic year!). If you're willing to spare a minute, please let me know what you think – I worked so hard on this and I’d appreciate any feedback you can give!
> 
> P.S. Be sure to check out [the incredible, emotional art piece](https://twitter.com/NiscuitG/status/1155886430616293384) that the lovely Niscuit-Gravy drew which is inspired by this fic (I'm posting it at the end because it does contain spoilers).
> 
> Please come chat about promnis with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/silverxharmony/status/1147897875960979456) or [Tumblr](https://harmonization.tumblr.com/post/186118943921/)! I’m still neck-deep in promnis hell with so many more fic ideas (would you like to see more?) and no hope of escape anytime soon, and would love to ramble about these boys with y’all ♥


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